


Sailing the Lethe

by samsarapine



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Basically everyone's ableist jerks, Blanket Permission, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Science, Gen, Hydra's ableist, Original Character Death(s), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Spoilers, Steve's ableist, Temporary Amnesia, Tony's ableist, amazing artwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8525152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samsarapine/pseuds/samsarapine
Summary: He awakes on a boat, drifting along the shoreline of a tropical island. The card he pulls from his pocket reads, "Jean Canton, le nolisement, Grand'Riviere, Martinique."
Too bad he doesn't remember being Jean Canton.
Too bad he doesn't remember anything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [dutchoven](http://dutchoven.livejournal.com/), your artwork still blows me away. Thank you for creating such beautiful, powerful pieces. I've loved working with you.
> 
> Special thanks to [Lets_call_me_Lily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lets_call_me_Lily/pseuds/Lets_call_me_Lily) and [Rroselavy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy), for your thoughtful beta work. You rock so hard! Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> And finally, thank you Marvel Big Bang mods. You put together a great fest!
> 
> A/N: The island of Petit Mayreau does not exist. If it did, it would lie about 25 miles south of St. Lucia, in the Lesser Antilles. This story contains movie-level violence and an on-screen original main character death. Also, adults and children are held as hostages in a community setting, but no active acts of violence or threats are made against the children, who are ignorant of their status.

Sailing the Lethe

Chapter One

He wakes to a moving world. It rolls, rises, falls gently, over and over, interrupted by small jolts and scrapes.

His throat's dry, he's nauseous, his whole body aches and his head hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. He sits up, thumps his head on something, and falls back. "Damn it!"

Rubbing the sore spot, he sits up again, more cautiously this time, and looks around.

He's in the cabin of, judging from the motion and cramped size, a small boat of some sort. It's shabby but clean, obviously well-cared for, if worn.

"Hello?" he calls. 

When no one answers, he crawls out of the bunk he'd been lying on, hunches over to avoid the low ceiling, and begins to explore.

There's not much to see below decks. A quick glance covers the tiny galley with its table and bench seat, the bunks fore and aft, a door in a corner that probably leads to a cramped head, a secured trapdoor that must lead below decks to the engine area. He heads for the ladder and squeezes through the barely-large-enough hatch to emerge into sunlight, warmth, and a small, sheltered wheelhouse. 

Beyond that, everything is blinding light. 

When his eyes adjust, he sees an expanse of empty deck. The white fiberglass is slick though dry, with a convertible cover neatly tied down and stowed in the stern, and hinged deck benches lining the platform.

The bump and scrape are the boat's motions against a rough, dilapidated pier that extends maybe fifty feet from a small beach. 

"Where the hell am I?" he murmurs. 

He doesn't recognize anything. He needs to get home _asphalt, old urine, exhaust, heat, traffic, noise_ ... 

Home. Home is ... 

He doesn't know. The memory. Isn't there.

There's nothing. 

Where does he live? Where's his home?

He searches for other memories, any memory, but finds nothing. There's a blank wall where his past should be.

But he knows who he is, he has to, you can't forget who you are. He's ... 

The wall looms white and infinite in his mind. 

He's ... 

His heart beats thick and heavy in his chest; he can't breathe.

He's ... 

Bile burns at the back of his throat. 

_Oh Sweet Jesus._

The movement of the boat changes. It's not bumping the pier anymore, gently receding back towards the ocean with the tide. 

He can't leave land. Land means people. People mean answers. 

He glances around, finds the mooring line, throws it over the nearest pile, pulls the boat in and ties it off, climbs onto the pier. He looks at the beach, but he can't make himself leave the boat. The boat is the last five minutes of his life, which is all he has, his whole world, all five minutes of it and he can't leave it, what if it comes untied, floats away? But he can't float away, because the sea is death, even a warm sea like this one. All seas are endless, and black, and even if they're warm on the surface, he knows, _knows_ , knows in his bones that they're cold below the surface, the kind of cold that traps you in ice and steals the breath from the lungs and the feeling from the body and your whole damned world and everyone in it. 

He sits on the edge of the pier next to the boat, shivering even though it's hot and humid and the sun feels like coals on his skin.

He searches his pockets. He finds nothing in his jeans, but in the pockets of the too-tight jacket he's wearing he finds a few bills and coins, a utility knife, a coil of fishing line with a hook sunk into a cork for safety, and a couple of business cards. No wallet or passport. The cards read, "Jean Canton, le nolisement, Grand'Riviere, Martinique."

So. He must be Jean Canton. He evidently lives in or near Grand'Riviere, on Martinique, which is in the French West Indies, he thinks. _Le nolisement_. Boat charters. He charters boats. Probably this boat.

He whispers the name. _Jean Canton_. It feels strange in his mouth, not familiar at all.

_Jean Canton. Jean. Jean._

It tastes of blood and salt and rot. He runs his tongue over his teeth. He obviously hasn't brushed them for a while. Maybe that's why the name doesn't feel right. Maybe, once he brushes his teeth, it will feel better when he says it.

When he finds a toothbrush.

He looks over at the sandy beach liberally sprinkled with sea-smoothed rocks. There's a dilapidated thatched shack crouched above the high water line, half-hidden behind sea grapes. The weathered wood of the dock is heating under the intense sun (he needs a hat), and the reflection from the beat up 28-footer pulling gently on its mooring is blinding (and sunglasses). He takes in the lush vegetation covering the mountain that rises abruptly behind the beach. A line of tilted poles bearing electrical wires snakes along the single track of a road half-way up the mountain. He can hear the cries of gulls and the gentle slap of waves, and smells seaweed and diesel and heat-baked rock. A shadow slides across him; shading his eyes, he traces the dive of a brown and white pelican into the water. It surfaces to perch on a piling not six feet away, a large fish dangling from its beak, ignoring him as it throws its head back to catch and swallow the fish.

_A white pelican and chicks, blue background, 'Your Blood Can Save a Life.' Bomb shelter, British voices--London?_

The memory (if it is one) vanishes. There's just a big brown bird on a piling.

None of it looks even vaguely familiar. 

Maybe there's something in the shack on the beach. Food and water. An identity. 

Answers.

~oOo~

There's nothing in the shack: it's long-abandoned and falling down.

Feeling a little steadier and a little sheepish at his earlier panic about floating out to sea, he re-boards the boat and searches her. He finds a plastic bagged insurance policy that says, yes, the boat, _L'ange de la Mer,_ belongs to Jean Canton. To him. Maybe. Probably.

And god, yes, there's food and water and a toothbrush on board, too. He's ravenous. And his teeth itch.

A half-hour later, fed, thirst slaked, and mouth tasting of baking soda, he curls up on the bunk and sleeps, exhausted.

~oOo~

The sun is low on the water when he wakes, and the worst of the heat of the day seems to have passed when he returns to the deck. He dons the cap he'd found below deck, sits on the pier again and drinks a bottle of water, debating whether he should stay moored here for another night, or sail around the island until he finds a harbor and a town.

The choice is rendered moot when he discovers that the boat is out of gas. Less disappointed than he'd imagined he might be, he empties a couple of teabags and fills them with some canned tuna, then uses one to bait his hook. He heads to the deepest water off the pier, sits again, and throws his line into the ocean.

Storm clouds line the horizon to the south, but here the wind remains calm and the waves continue to gently roll. The sun burns the sea, sinking below the waves; soon, it will be lost to the sea's ice and its hunger for all things warm. He shivers. Sound is muted, time poised to tip from day to night, just a few birds audible from the jungle behind him. 

There's a tug on his line, then a pull that digs deep into his palms. Instinctively he yanks on the line; a large fish flies out of the water and arcs through the air. _Huh._ He'd just meant to set the hook. The fish is heavy so it lands short of the pier, but he pulls again, not so hard, and lands it in a matter of seconds. It's a big snapper, ten pounds or so, more than enough for a good dinner and breakfast despite how damned hungry he is. 

He needs to get some gloves before he fishes again; the line tore slices in his hands. He wipes his bloody palms on his jeans, guts and scales the fish, and heads for the boat's tiny kitchen.

It's tough to cook with a t-shirt ripped into strips wrapped around his injured palms. Still, frying fish is mainly a matter of flipping it with a spatula, so cooking isn't too uncomfortable. He heats up a can of beans to go with it. Coffee is both beverage and dessert with the amount of sugar he throws into it. All in all, he's pretty pleased with his meal. He might not have much in the way of memory, but he can still take care of himself, thanks very much.

Though, damn, he'd been hungry. He thought he'd have more leftovers. But he should have enough for breakfast.

His palms itch, annoying enough that he figures it's not going to be easy to fall asleep without putting more antibiotic cream on the wounds. He unwraps the rags.

His knees buckle. He sits on the bunk, hard, unable to wrap his mind around it. 

There are no signs of the cuts on his palms, just the faint itch of newly-healed flesh. He stares, mind racing, but no, he'd been cut. The blood on his clothes proves it.

Something's seriously wrong.

~oOo~

He can't sleep.

Not only does he not know who he is, he's beginning to wonder _what_ he is. 

No one heals this fast. No one. He thinks _mutant_. It has vague negative connotations to him, but only because he associates it with things like 'thermonuclear' and 'radiation' and 'genocide.' Is he a mutant? If he is, does it have anything to do with his memory loss? Has he been in some sort of war?

War. War seems familiar. He thinks, maybe, he's fought in wars. He looks at his hands again. Not even a scar remains. He examines his arms, his chest, his stomach, his legs. No scars. No one gets through wars without scars.

Except, maybe, him. 

He's strong, landing a fish that big with so little effort. He heals fast. He might not remember events, but he seems to have good survival instincts. He assumes he's fairly intelligent, given his thought processes. Someone like him would make a hell of a soldier.

Except he seems to be Jean Canton, charters. Maybe he's a ... bodyguard-slash-guide-slash-tour operator? If so, he must not have a job right now, because while there's food for a day or two longer on the boat, he definitely doesn't have supplies for any kind of expedition.

But that kind of work doesn't feel right. He's not really interested in being hired out for fishing trips or island-hopping. He's interested in ... helping. Protecting.

In finding out who the hell he _is_ , damn it.

Okay. Assess the situation. 

Assets: a sea-going boat, reasonably supplied with first aid supplies, fresh water, some canned food. Fast-healing abilities (he winces, _not thinking about that right now_ ). Strength. Health, if you ignore what the memory issues imply about his brain. He's on land, not in the middle of the ocean.

Land.

He needs to explore. Find out where he is. 

He shakes his head. Can't do it now, it's night, and while his body doesn't ache so much, his headache hasn't gone away since he first woke up. He's been able to ignore it for the most part, but it's always there, a dull throb that seems centered in the front of his head and behind his eyes. Distracting at best, really painful at worst, when he thinks about it. So, the headache is a liability.

Other liabilities?

No memory. No known allies. No gas. Little food. Unknown island, but it looks inhabited, given the derelict shack, the road and the electric lines. Likelihood that any people he meets will be hostile: unknown. 

And what happens if he meets someone who knows him? Can he trust them to help him? Or will they take him back to whoever did this to him?

Something's happened. A person doesn't lose his memory easily. He may have had an accident, but he's pretty sure that he's been attacked, that some person or people did something to him that made him lose his memory. Since he must have sailed a fair distance, the threat of people on this island is probably less than if he'd stayed wherever he'd been when he got in the boat. 

Unless he went in a big circle, of course. Or unless the boat didn't have much gas in the first place. Maybe he's still where he'd started?

No. Probably not. If he was, someone would have found him by now. 

He groans. Fine. Approach people cautiously. In the morning, when he can move around more freely. The jungle looks pretty thick, and the last thing he needs is to break a leg.

_Well, tomorrow's mapped out._

That just leaves the strange shit that's happening with his body.

He frowns at his hands, turning them back and forth. Still no scars, not that he really thought anything would change since the last time he'd looked at them. But really, what the hell's going on? He hadn't even thought about his body before the whole 'magic healing' incident, but now he thinks that maybe he's been taking it a little for granted. 

He's muscled. Really, really muscled. Every muscle seems to be defined enough to use for an anatomy class lecture. He'd love to draw it, if it weren't his own body, anyway. Seems a little narcissistic to draw himself.

Draw. 

He spots a pen and grabs it. He finds a nautical log with some blank pages, and sits at the table. He draws his left hand clenched in a fist. Then he draws the galley lit by lamplight. The lines flow naturally, the style strong and bold. 

He's been drawing for awhile, to get this good.

Plus, it's really relaxing. He shouldn't use the log as a sketchbook, but he'll keep his eyes open, see if there's something else lying around that he could use. He'd buy one, except he has less than ten euros on him, and he'll need that for gas for the boat.

He can deal with that later. Right now, he just wants to know how strong he is. He might need to defend himself. 

Back up on deck, the storm clouds that he'd seen to the south earlier are now gone. There's no man-made light; he's alone in the world. Stars arc above him, dimmed somewhat by the moon. But the Milky Way's gentle swirl is visible, and the the beach is bright under the full moon.

The beach has enough room to move. It should be safe. He hasn't seen any dangerous animals or snakes.

_Robinson Crusoe._ A vague impression of shipwrecks and survival on a remote island. He can't remember anything else.

He can't think about his memory loss right now. Instead, he hops over to the pier and walks to the beach. The sand is loose, and it looks like the tide is fully out.

He stretches, jogs a few steps in place to warm up. Yes. He needs this. It feels good to move, to use this body of his. It's calming. Centering. Like drawing, but different, a centering of power, not emotion.

Time to start testing it.

He does push-ups until he's bored without breaking a sweat or feeling it in his arms. He sprints up and down the beach, first along the waterline in the firm sand, then along the line of low, dry dunes above the high water mark. After a half-hour, he's not even winded.

He sees a driftwood log maybe six feet long, a little over a foot in diameter. It's half-buried in the sand. Should make a nice weight to test himself against.

He's going to fail, of course. But maybe he'll be able to shift it.

He doesn't fail.

He lifts the goddamned log out of the sand, swings it over his head and holds it there. Easily. He carefully takes one hand away and balances the log on the other. After a moment, he lifts his left foot, too.

He's balancing six feet of driftwood log--maybe two hundred and fifty pounds of wood--over his head, with one hand, on one foot, without any strain.

Nobody can do this.

Heart racing with adrenaline, he carefully puts his foot down, steadies the log with his free hand, and lowers it back into its cradle of sand. Then he crouches on the beach, hugging himself.

He's just done something that should have been impossible for him to do. What the hell is he?

He can't tell anyone. They'll--they'll take him to a lab. Test him. Lock him away. Control him.

_White room, white coats, white lights, white-hot pain spreading through him, flames licking through his veins, through his muscles, a steel bar melts in his grip but he can feel his body fighting back against the flames, cleaning his blood of the stuff they'd injected into him, stealing his breath with the pain of it--_

"Oh God," he whispers. "Mother Mary. Help me. Please."

He huddles, and he prays.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

He wakes up on the beach after a nightmare about fire and pain, and, (strange with all the flames) a man dangling over a snow-covered valley, just beyond his reach.

His cheeks are wet. He's been crying.

There was a name he was shouting … He can't remember it. He can't. Why can't he _remember the name_?

By the time the eastern horizon begins to brighten, his frustration turns into restlessness. He makes coffee, eats the rest of his fish and beans, shaves, rinses off in the ocean, dons fresh clothes (though the only things that fit him are sweats and a t-shirt, both way too tight; these can't be his clothes but he's not thinking about that right now, can't think about that, it's not important, he can get more clothes, ones that fit better).

He takes a deep breath and holds it, lets it out. The fucking clothes don't matter. He needs to think about what to do next.

He needs people, because people mean gas and food and most importantly, information. He'll need to be cautious. But unless every single person is colluding against him for some reason, he's going to go with the thought that there are good people and bad people everywhere, and they're generally easy enough to spot. 

Despite his dreams, he doesn't feel tired. His body itches with the need to move. The sun's up, but the air is still cool, shadows still deep beneath the lush greenery that springs up at the edge of the beach. He throws some water, the logbook and a pen, and his handful of euros into an old backpack, hooks it over his shoulder, locks the boat, pockets the key, and starts exploring.

The beach ends in cliffs rising straight from the sea after a few hundred yards in both directions. He could try swimming along the shoreline, but rip currents are a real danger. He'd rather not tempt fate any further than she's already taken him.

He remembers an overgrown path behind the rundown shack, and yes, it runs upward into the jungle. With luck, it will lead up to the road.

Or not. The path ends a few feet behind the shack, in an area that has obviously been used as a dump, possibly a latrine. 

Well, he'll just have to hike through the jungle. 

Direction is easy enough, since going uphill should lead him where he wants to go. But that's the only easy thing about trekking through the jungle. 

Plants spring up from the ground and drop down from the treetops and reach over from tree trunks, even seem to piggyback on each other, weaving a thick blanket of green and red and yellow and brown that he struggles to push through. Some of the plants have thorns, and he sees large bugs and spiders clinging to tree trunks. He hopes they're not poisonous. 

What he wouldn't give for a machete.

The ground is slippery with fallen leaves, with soft red clay lurking under thick leaf mulch. The plants seem to trap the air around him; there's no breeze. He's not tired, but it's hot as hell and the sun has only been up for an hour or so. He's drowning in sweat. He pushes forward steadily, stopping occasionally to sip at his water. He tries to ignore the biting insects that swarm around him.

He should have risked rip tides, undertows, jagged rocks and dangerous sea creatures instead of this hellish hill.

He finally bursts out of the jungle and onto a poorly-maintained paved road. There's a breeze that feels like the best thing he's ever had brush his skin, though the road is already heating. He glances up at the sun, but it hasn't changed position much. The trek took him about half an hour, over a half-mile or so of steep jungle terrain. 

He's damn well not going back down without gas for the boat, even if he has to steal some.

His conscience twitches, hard, but hey. He's got a rash over both hands from some plant's sap, his legs and arms are scratched up and insect-bitten, and he's gone through most of his water, all before he's laid eyes on a person. Jungles should be avoided whenever possible. Stealing gas so he can use a boat instead? His conscience can suck an egg. If he has to steal gas, he'll make sure the person is paid back later.

Walking along the road is much more pleasant. It's still hot, but the breeze counters that, and now that he doesn't have to watch where he puts his feet, he can look around more, get a feel for the island. 

Bird and insect sounds are unfamiliar, but he likes them. The road hugs the cliff, wandering in and out of shadow. He passes waterfalls that splash down the mountain and through culverts under the road. He savors sharp green scents, hints of floral. He must be used to life in the city, because everything's new, nothing is familiar. And creepy as it is, his body is healing from his minor wounds lightning fast. His hands don't burn and itch anymore, and there aren't any bug bites left. 

It's turning out to be a nice walk.

A little while later, he hears a vehicle coming towards him. He steps off the road just as a large, white passenger van rounds the corner in front of him. He smiles and lifts a hand, and the van pulls over a few feet past him.

He walks back as the driver rolls down his window. The driver has dark brown skin, with strong European features. His face is kind.

"Need a ride?" the driver asks. In French.

He hesitates. For some reason, he'd expected people to speak in English. But French is … fine. Apparently he's multi-lingual. "You're going in the other direction," he says.

"Unless you're headed to the lighthouse or the football field," the driver says, "or you plan to follow the road twelve miles to Saint-Christophe on the north shore, you may want to jump in with the kids back there and come back to the village with us. I'm Lancolme Dernier, by the way." The driver sticks his hand out the window. 

He takes it, hesitates, a blank where his automatic reply would normally be. He's got to start thinking of himself by his identity. "Jean Canton." He shrugs and makes himself look sheepish. "I'm new here."

The driver--Dernier--grins. "I guessed that. Not many faces around that I don't know. So, you want to come with us?"

Jean looks at the passengers. They're kids, more than Jean can estimate as they jockey for position at the windows, staring out at him. "Is there room?"

"Always," Dernier says. The door of the van opens remotely, and the kids scramble back into their seats. 

Jean gets in, ducking his head and giving the kids a small wave and a smile. He takes the nearest empty seat. "Hi. I'm Jean."

"I'm Doudou," the tallest kid says. His skin is deep brown, his smile blinding white. "That's Joel, David, Emile, Jojo, Cecil, Georges and Michel," he adds, pointing at the rest of the kids in turn, who squirm and smile and wave and jostle each other.

Jean immediately loses track of which child went with which name.

"Buckled in?" Dernier asks from the front.

"Yes," the kids chorus, ignoring their seatbelts completely and crowding around Jean. Jean meets Dernier's gaze in the rear-view mirror, but Dernier just grins and shakes his head. Jean notices that he takes extra care to keep the ride smooth as he continues down the uneven road.

"Where did you come from?" a child--the only girl, Jojo?--asks.

"Er, from a boat." Jean points down the mountain. "I'm stranded at a pier near an abandoned shack."

"That's Old Luc's place," another child offers. He may be Cecil, but he might be Georges. "He's dead."

"Grant him eternal rest, oh Lord," the kids chorus, crossing themselves.

"He died on his boat."

"Nobody found him for a week!"

"He was mean."

"Don't say bad things about the dead, Michel," Jojo scolds. "He wasn't nice," she adds, turning to Jean. "Nobody liked him, but," she glares at Michel, "he was family, so we pray for his soul."

Michel ignores her. "He used to shout at us when we went down to the beach to play."

"There's a way down to the beach?" Jean asks. Another chorus answers him.

"Our aunties don't like us going there."

"You have to be little, like us."

"If you're little, you can use the animal paths."

"Or you can take a paddleboard, if you can sneak one off the docks."

The children turn in unison to glare furiously at Michel.

"You're not supposed to tell!"

"You broke your promise!"

"Traitor!"

"Hey," Jean says. "Hey," softer, "it's okay. Just, don't do it again, okay? I don't think it's safe." He looks around, meeting each child's gaze. The kids glance at each other, but reluctantly nod. "Great. So, want to tell me about where we're going?"

"We're going home," David says. He's the youngest, maybe six, Jean guesses. Doudou must be around twelve, and seems to be the oldest.

"He knows that," Michel says, but Doudou interrupts him.

"We live in Saint-Luc," he says. "On the south side of the island."

"Martinique?" Jean guesses.

The kids look shocked. "No," Doudou says. "Not Martinique. That's where rich people live. This is Petit Mayreau."

"We're about thirty nautical miles south of St. Lucia," Dernier calls back. "More or less." Jean notices that the kids don't seem to be aware that Dernier's been listening to them the whole time.

"It takes _forever_ to get to Martinique," Jojo says.

"How do you know? You've never been there," Michel says.

"You haven't, either," she snaps back.

"Grandpére says it's not so long by plane," Cecil offers.

Jean steps in before the argument can escalate. "How big is Saint-Luc?"

"It's the biggest village on the island," George says. 

Cecil says, "After Saint-Christophe."

"Saint-Christophe is a town, not a village," Jojo says. 

"There's only Saint-Luc and Saint-Christophe," Michel points out. "That makes Saint-Luc the smallest."

The rest of the kids glare at him, obviously annoyed by his lack of loyalty to their home. Jean sort of likes Michel. He reminds him of someone.

Someone he can't remember, but who must have been important to him, and _it's important, he needs to remember who it was--_

"Monsieur? Are you okay?" Doudou asks.

Jean breathes through his panic and randomly asks another question. "How many people live in Saint-Luc?"

The kids all start talking at once. "There's Father René, and Mme. Mondesir, and--"

"Let's introduce M. Canton to everyone when we reach the village, okay?" Dernier says. "Why don't you tell him what you were up to this early in the morning."

The kids begin chattering about football fields and push mowers, arms waving and arguments breaking out with regularity, but more often they laugh and bounce from seat to seat, crawling over Jean like affectionate mice. He finally catches on when David drops his boat key on the floor of the van and scrambles to pick it up before Jean notices.

"Where's the rest of it?" Jean asks, but he can't help grinning as the kids reluctantly return the handful of euros he'd been carrying. They'd taken his backpack and he hadn't even noticed, the brats. He gives them a euro to share, and they rush to the back of the van and begin to whisper together.

They're happy. One euro more or less isn't going to help him. But it makes him feel good to know that it means something to them. Besides, he knows what it's like to not have any money. He and ... 

His headache flares, bright and needle sharp above, behind his eyes, but he ignores it.

A name. He almost had a name. He and-- 

Pain, worse. Hell. Just. Ignore it. Think.

And--

His stomach roils, his mouth tastes sour, the pain burns bright as fire, he's going to burn up but he's got to push past it--

And--

The upholstery under his hand starts to smolder and he jumps, losing the tenuous hold he had on the thought. The pain in his head lessens. He tries to remember again, but nothing's left but the white wall in his mind.

No use.

He closes his eyes. If he'd been alone, he might have given in to the tears he can feel burning behind his lids. It's gone. Whatever memory he'd almost found, it's gone. 

He opens his eyes and gazes blindly out the window. The pain in his head is fading again, but he feels depressed and hopeless. At least, thank God, the kids don't seem to have noticed. They're still in the back of the van, though they've broken the huddle to go back to clambering over the seats and each other, arguing and laughing.

Kids are so great.

The van's slowing. He needs to pull himself together. He wipes his arm over his eyes, but as he's lowering it, his gaze drops to the seat he'd clutched in his pain.

There's a perfect scorch mark draped over the edge, in the exact shape of his hand.

~oOo~

He manages a smile when the van stops and the kids swarm over him to the door. He can't panic in front of strangers, especially not the children. He can panic later, if he needs to.

It isn't until he's out of the van that Jean realizes that Dernier is missing his left leg.

Dernier notices him looking. "IED," he says. "I served in Afghanistan as a French peacekeeper. Happened while we were training Afghan military escorts on a convoy traveling through Kapisa." He shrugs. "I was one of the lucky ones. I was driving, got blown clear when the device detonated." He gestures towards the van with his head. "Specially outfitted for me. Couldn't stand the thought of never driving again." He pulls a pair of crutches out of the van and slips them under his arms.

"Didn't they give you a prosthetic?" Jean asks.

"This way," Dernier says. The kids run up ahead of them as Jean falls in beside him, and they walk towards a small village haphazardly strewn along a rocky shore, fishing nets draped over bamboo racks and beat-up boats anchored along a rough stone outcrop in a small, natural bay. Most of the buildings are wood and thatch, but there are a few more permanent-looking cinder-block rectangles, too, weeds grown tall around their foundations. 

"Yes, they offered me one," Dernier continues. "But I knew I was coming home. You might not have noticed, but there's not much in the way of medical facilities around." He sweeps a hand at the village, grinning. "A prosthetic is useless without professional maintenance. Besides, the crutches are cheaper to replace." 

Jean can't help but grin back at him. "You cover ground pretty well on those things," he says.

"Once a speed demon, always a speed demon," Dernier says. "Give me wheels, and I can fly." He laughs. "On a pair of sticks, I might not be able to fly, but I can still keep up with a big guy like you."

Jean immediately slows, sure that he's been an ass and taken Dernier's mobility for granted, but Dernier rolls his eyes and pokes his ankle with the nearest crutch. "Stop being an idiot," he says.

Jean's really starting to like Dernier. He shrugs. "Right, then. Race you to that building." He points to the nearest house.

Dernier roars with laughter. "If you give me a twenty-foot handicap, maybe. Come on, it's nearly lunch. I'll buy yours if you tell me how you came to be wandering the wrong way down a road in the middle of the tiniest, most remote island in the Lesser Antilles. But first, we have to meet the pater."

"Pater?" 

"Father René. He's the unofficial village head. It's a courtesy call, but a necessary one." Dernier still sounds jocular, but Jean hears a hint of strain beneath his words. "The church is over there." He points to one of the better-maintained cinder-block buildings, which Jean now notices has a small bell tower attached. 

"I look forward to meeting him," Jean says. Dernier nods but avoids his gaze, and falls silent.

The village is obviously poor. The town roads are all dirt and sand, full of large potholes and washboard ripples that must make them nearly impassable for anything but a Jeep. A few chickens wander uncaged, scratching at the dirt. The smell of petrol and fish mingles with the odor of cooking oil, all borne by the stiff breeze blowing in off the ocean. Most of the structures appear to be homes, but there's a garage with two antique petrol pumps--one's probably diesel for the boats--and two cinder structures without walls, with tables placed on the dirt, thatched over and open on three sides, the fourth comprised of a small building that looks like a bar that opens to the roofed area. Several older men sit at one of the tables under the nearest thatched shelter, playing checkers, glasses and cups at their elbows. The children have vanished, but Jean can still hear their laughter and shouts from the vicinity of the shoreline. He breathes deep, relaxes a bit. While he still doesn't feel safe, he's more comfortable with people around him than he'd been when he'd been on his own at the boat. 

They reach the church, and Dernier leads Jean through the open door. The air inside is thick with humidity and heat, the open windows supplying plenty of sun, but situated so that no breeze passes through them. They've entered a single room, with folding chairs set up in rows. There's a small altar and a very large cross hanging opposite the entrance: a kneeling rail is the only separation between worshipers and priest. A worn upright piano to Jean's right leans against a wall, a stool serving as its bench.

"Father René?" Dernier calls. "I've brought someone for you to meet."

"Coming, just a moment," Jean hears, then a door opens at the far end of the sanctuary.

The man who enters the room is tall and lean, startling white skin coupled with startling white hair bright against the black of his cassock, and eyes the color of glacier ice. He walks with authority and power, so much that it takes Jean a moment to notice the gnarled, arthritic hands and wrinkled skin. The priest stops cold upon seeing Jean.

"Father René," Dernier says, and Jean hears the grim undertone of his voice, as pleasant as his delivery is, "please meet my friend, Jean Canton. He might be staying with me for a while."

Jean's surprised by that and darts a quick glance at Dernier, but says nothing. He offers his hand to the priest. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Father."

"The pleasure is mine, my son." Father René's grip is firm, his skin soft with age, like weathered leather. He speaks with a slight accent that Jean can't place. "A truly unexpected pleasure. We get so few visitors here."

Beside him, Jean can feel Dernier tense. "I was just telling him that," Dernier says, his tone light. "He just arrived. He hasn't had a chance to sit down and eat something, so we won't take much of your time. But I had to introduce you first, for courtesy's sake."

Father René's sharp gaze sweeps over Dernier. "Your courtesy is noted. I hope to see you in the congregation on Sunday, if you're still with us then," he says to Jean, and the message underneath the words is plain: be there.

"I'll make sure he comes," Dernier promises. "Oh, and Father, the children finished mowing the grass on the field as you asked. I had them rake up the cuttings, too, so it should be ready for your guests on Sunday, after services."

"Thank you, my son." His thanks are clearly dismissive; he doesn't glance at Dernier. He offers his hand to Jean again. "A pleasure, child. I'm always glad to welcome new lambs to the flock."

"Thank you, Father," Jean says, suppressing a shiver.

"We're just going over to Christophe's," Dernier says. "We'll see you later."

"Give M. Palcy my regards," Father René says. Jean can feel his gaze boring into his back as Dernier leads him back into the open air and sunlight.

"Well, then," Dernier says, false cheer ringing hollow, "how about a beer?"

~oOo~

Jean wants to ask Dernier about Father René but hesitates to raise the subject in public. Before he can propose finding somewhere private, though, word has spread through the village about a stranger, and he and Dernier are surrounded by curious people within minutes of sitting at a table near the old men and their checkers game.

Dernier relaxes, his brittle tension gone, and introduces people with amused fondness. "Dimitri Lavril--she's our local source for fresh produce, how she grows things in sand is beyond me," he says, waving a hand at a woman in her sixties, skin burned nearly black by the sun and hands gnarled and veined. "Our host, Christophe Palcy, owns the only bar that serves food," an older man, tightly curled white hair shorn tight to his head and a huge, warm grin on his face, "and his best friend and major competition, Martina Bernabe, who serves the strongest drinks this side of Normandy, with prices to boot." Laughter breaks out, and a tall, distinguished looking woman with mahogany skin and graying waves shakes her head, smiling. "And that's Renard over there, he owns the garage down the road; over there, Georges Demoniere, who owns the only fish tanning business in the islands, and is responsible for the foul smells we all endure when the wind shifts to the east." More introductions, more new faces, but Jean loses track in the rush of information until he's simply sitting in the middle of a party of well-wishers, feeling tall and pale and ridiculously large in comparison, and welcome in a way that warms him. Their friendliness feels precious, like a gift.

Beer appears in front of Jean, and then a plate of crisp fritters rich with tender fish, and then an onslaught of gratins, lobsters and crabs steamed in the shell and served whole, fish in spicy sauces, fish in sweet sauces, mashed plantains and something called _boniato_ , and the food keeps coming and everyone's eating, chairs pulled together tight and a second table added to theirs, and the beer in Jean's glass never seems to empty and always stays cold, and he wishes, he _wishes_ he knew who he was and hopes that he has friends like these in his life.

It's also exhausting as hell. He's starting to ache again, his head in particular, and though he's hungry enough to keep eating after most of the rest have finished, there's no more food. He knows they have questions, but they've been polite enough to wait for him to finish eating first. Now that the food is gone, they're ready to jump in and drown him in questions. All he has to is the white space in his head and no answers.

Dernier comes to his rescue, whether he knows it or not. "He's my friend," he grips Jean's shoulder and squeezes, "which, I believe, entitles me to take him home and catch up on old times before any of the rest of you start haranguing the man."

Jean nearly sags in relief. He doesn't want anyone to know that he's lost his memory. But it's going to be hard to hide secrets in a village this small unless he has help. Dernier. He instinctively trusts him--for no logical reason, he knows that. But he feels like he and Dernier are comrades, as if they've fought battles together and won, as if he can trust Dernier to have his back. He needs to find his memories, and in the meantime, he needs to find a way to convince everyone that he's who he's telling them he is. He hopes Dernier might be willing to help him.

Dernier picks up the lunch tab, arguing with the other villagers in a friendly way as he persuades them to contribute to the cost, then gives the money to Palcy as he laughs a promise to bring Jean to Bernabe's bar that evening, or tomorrow, and spend money there, too. Jean waves to everyone, they wave back, and the party dissolves in a friendly puddle of camaraderie. 

Dernier and Jean walk to Dernier's van and get in, Jean sitting up front with Dernier this time.

"I hope you don't mind me cutting things short," Dernier murmurs as he pulls onto a rutted road that winds upward from the far end of the harbor. "You looked overwhelmed."

"Thank you," Jean says. He is. And his head hurts.

"I also hope you don't mind that I told Father René that you were staying with me," Dernier continues. "The invitation is open. I hope you accept. I have plenty of room--I'm living in my family's house, and it's huge, just me there. Plenty of food and privacy."

"I'd like that, if it isn't too much trouble," Jean admits. "I'd like to learn more about Saint-Luc."

"I thought you might." Dernier's glance is shrewd. "But we'll wait until we're up at the house before we start trading confidences, if you don't mind."

"Works for me," Jean says.

They continue on, the silence between them comfortable. Jean leans out his window. 

The road climbs in a gentle slope, winding up to a plateau, where fields and orchards stretch on all sides, although everything looks overgrown and non-productive. "Most of this land belongs to my family," Dernier says. "Other than that small orange grove and the adjoining fields to the northeast over there. Those are part of Lavril's farm. She keeps hives, too. The local honey sells well in the market on the north shore of the island."

"How long has your family lived here?" 

"Several generations." Dernier glances at Jean, then smoothly dodges a huge pothole. "We've all lived here. Though my grandfather went back to France in the 1930s, lived in Marseilles for a while. Fought in the French resistance during the Second World War, then came back here and married a local girl. Things were pretty run down by then. The war hit the islands hard. His name was Jacques. Jacques Dernier."

The way Dernier says his grandfather's name feels like a test. Jean searches his memory, but no. There's not even a slight tinge of memory, unlike the phantom dark-haired man he chases in his dreams. 

Before he can say anything, though, they drive around a curve in the road and the estate comes into view.

It's beautiful, dignified and confident, like a proper lady. It's built of wood, three stories high, with dozens of windows framed by shutters thrown wide, once white but now mottled by weather and time. The steep hip roof is red and hints at high ceilings within, and first and second floor porches wrap around three sides. The porch on the ground floor ends in steps that disappear down the mountainside, which Jean suspects lead down to the ocean. When surrounded by gardens in the past, it must have been spectacular. If she were a person, she'd be tall, with white skin, red lips, dark hair and an eyebrow perpetually lifted in amused but shrewd calculation. Maybe with a name like ... 

"Grandfather named the house 'Peggy,'" Dernier says. "I didn't understand when I was a child. But I do, now."

_Yes,_ Jean thinks. _Peggy._ This is Peggy. "I think I understand, too," he murmurs.

"I think you probably do," Dernier says, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

~oOo~

They don't talk much, Jean unexpectedly exhausted and Dernier a quiet, supportive presence that steers Jean to a large, airy room on the ground floor and helps him put sheets on the bed before Jean tumbles into it. He's asleep before Dernier has closed the bedroom door behind him.

The sun barely lights the window when he wakes. The sun sets early in the tropics, so it must be around dinnertime. Dernier must have come in while he was sleeping, because there are clothes and toiletries on the top of the dresser. He looks through them, noting that they all seem big enough to fit him, which is great, because he hasn't been looking forward to wearing skin-tight sweats in the hot, humid weather.

The clothes are loud. Prints with lots of bright plants and flowers. He thinks wistfully of plaids and khakis, and nice, plain white undershirts. 

Now that he's slept, Jean's restless, energy snapping under his skin like tiny riding crops. He finds a bathroom down the hall, uses the toilet, takes a quick shower. By the time he's dried off and has thrown on a shirt and some very colorful baggy shorts, he smells fresh bread and chicken baking. He follows the scent to the largest kitchen he's ever seen in his life, and pauses in the door.

"Sleep well?" Dernier is sautéing something on the stove. He doesn't turn around. But his voice is warm and friendly, and he points over his shoulder in the direction of a small table in a corner of the kitchen. "We'll eat in here instead of the dining room, if you don't mind. Don't wait for me, help yourself. I'll be finished here in a moment."

Jean gratefully takes Dernier at his word and sits at the table, helping himself to a hard roll still warm from the oven. He slathers creamy cheese over it and takes a bite before he helps himself to generous helpings of olives and tiny--and surprisingly hot--pickled cucumbers. By the time he's finished, Dernier has dishes of sautéed leeks, cold tomatoes, and a roasted chicken cut into quarters laid out, and has retreated to the pantry. As Jean begins to load his plate again, Dernier nudges his small butler's cart to the table, loaded with a large bowl of salad and a bottle of burgundy. He places both in front of Jean, takes the other chair, and serves himself.

"This is twice that you've fed me since we met," Jean says. "You may have noticed, but I eat a lot. If I were a stray, I'd be yours for life."

Dernier laughs. "Food always tastes better in good company. These past two meals have been particularly good, I think."

They eat in silence, finishing the meal with mango slices, hard cheese and the rest of the wine. The warm light of the kitchen feels safe.

Jean thinks it's probably now or never. He has questions, and needs answers. "Father René seems strict," he ventures.

Dernier gives him a sharp glance, but his face smooths to thoughtfulness as he studies Jean's expression. "Yes," he agrees. "Father René rules the village with an iron hand."

"Has he been here long?"

Dernier shrugged. "Long enough. He arrived while I was in Afghanistan. By the time I returned, he ran the village. He put me in my place quickly, too."

"He seems a bit," Jean struggles, but all that comes out is, "sinister."

"Trust your instincts, my friend," Dernier murmurs. He's not meeting Jean's gaze. "Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thank you." Jean watches as Dernier gets up, puts a kettle on to boil. "Is he really a priest?" he persists.

"He wears a priest's robes, he conducts Sunday services, he hears confession, he lives on church grounds," Dernier says. "I have no evidence that would indicate that he isn't a priest."

"But not everyone is who they seem to be," Jean says. "Is that it?"

Dernier pauses, and sighs. He spoons coffee into a French press, then pours water over the grounds. "There is no one who I could contact to verify my suspicions," he finally says. "But I cannot ask you to trust simply my word."

"Do you know me?" Jean murmurs. "Who I am, I mean? I think Father René does. I think he wants something from me."

Dernier doesn't seem surprised by the question. He places the press and two coffee cups on the butler's cart and wheels it back to the table. He offers a cup to Jean, who shakes his head, so Dernier sits. He pours coffee into his cup, all of his attention on the action. "I, too, think Father René knows who you are and wants something from you. And yes, I have a suspicion as to who you might be. But that's not important. I think that right now, the more important question is whether you know yourself."

"I don't. There was a card, in my pocket. But the name on it doesn't feel right."

"Ah." Dernier sipped his coffee, still not meeting Jean's eyes. "Do you want me to tell you who I think you might be?"

Jean thinks about it. He knows he should learn who he is, but he doesn't want to give up the little he knows about himself so soon. He thinks he's a good man, but what if he's wrong? What if he's a criminal? What if he's a terrorist? What if he's married and has kids who need him, or a doctor and someone needs his currently non-existent medical expertise? 

Besides, if Dernier tells him a name, what good will it do? It won't make him remember--in fact, it would be worse, because then people would have expectations of him, expectations he can't fulfill. He'd lose everything he's got right now. He'd have to start over, and this time, he'd be walking a line that everyone else knew, but he wouldn't. He'd make mistakes. 

Without knowing who he is, he might make mistakes, but they're his to make, not some forgotten identity's. He's free right now. He just has to be himself, whoever that is. He knows he should want to know who he really is, hell, he remembers how panicked he'd been the night before, the panic attacks he's had a few times since then, because he doesn't know who he is. But they don't seem so important now. Now, what seems to be most important to him is his freedom, and the moment. No past, no future, just right now. 

"I think," he says, "it's best for me to be Jean Canton, for now. I have this feeling that I'm not very good at subterfuge. Pretending to be someone I don't remember being, even if it's the right identity ... Well. I don't think I'd be any good at it."

Dernier smiles to himself, but he looks sad, too. "I imagine it's difficult for you to hide. Do you remember anything?"

Jean shakes his head. "But, I think ..." he frowns, "I trust my judgment. About people. Today I've met several good people. And some people who aren't so good." He sits back in his chair, meets Dernier's gaze when Dernier looks up. "I've met one man who I would like to call a friend."

Dernier looks relieved. "As have I," Dernier replies. He relaxes, and a place in Jean's heart warms. Dernier has stopped closing himself off. "There are few people in this world that I trust, my friend. The soldiers in my unit. The man who designed my van. My grandfather. But, I think, you. You I could trust, too."

Dernier is a good, good man. Jean is glad that he meets Dernier's standards, since they remind him of his own. "Please," Jean says. "Call me Jean."

"Lancolme." They share a smile, then Dernier--Lancolme--snaps his fingers. "I meant to ask you. How did you get to Petit Mayreau? We're outside of the regular shipping lanes, and our delivery boat isn't due back until tomorrow afternoon."

"A boat, the one I own, maybe?" Jean says. "Sorry. It's hard to claim something that you don't remember. I left it moored to a dock off a beach with an abandoned shack. It's out of gas."

"I know the place you mean. When the fishermen get back in the morning, I'll make arrangements for one of them to tow it here. It should be fine there tonight, but if a storm blows in, it could beach, maybe rip a hole in the hull. The boats tied up here in the village have a little more protection from the worst of the waves and wind."

"That would be great, thanks. But it brings up another problem." Jean winces. "I have less than ten euros to my name."

"That's not a problem, I have more than enough--"

It's Jean's turn to raise a hand. "I can't live off your generosity, though thank you for sharing what you've given me. I need to find a job, if there are any available here. I could help with the fishing boats?" He doesn't want to, because that would mean going out on the ocean, which is the last place he wants to be. But beggars can't be choosers.

Lancolme looks thoughtful, but shakes his head. "There's very little money in Saint-Luc, my friend. We can ask around. Perhaps someone might be able to pay you a bit for some work. But please, reconsider my offer. I have no one else to support, other than myself and my friends."

"I'm lucky to have come out of the jungle where I did," Jean says, shaking his head. "Thank you. Again."

"You've rescued me from endless days of boredom," Lancolme replies dryly. "Truly. While I love the island, you witnessed the height of my day: chauffeuring children to a soccer field and watching them mow grass."

"In that case, you're welcome."

Lancolme rises from his chair and settles himself on his crutches. He claps Jean's shoulder. "Grab those glasses and the bottle of wine from the counter over there. We have stars to watch and toasts to drink before we go to bed."

Jean grins. Yes. That sounds like a very good way to spend the evening.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's wisps of memory, maybe it's just fantasy or imagination, but Jean dreams.

He dreams of fire flowing through his veins, of his hand, glowing from the inside, bones visible like lace. He dreams of the stink of scorched meat, of smoldering leather, of sharp molten plastic. He dreams of screams, of a throat stripped raw and silenced.

He dreams of cold, and ice, and steel. He dreams of the flash from the muzzle of a gun. He dreams of a hand he can't reach. He dreams of a dark-haired man, his face twisted in rage and pain.

He wakes, still reaching. His face is wet. 

Was there a name? He thought, maybe. It's ... It's ... 

He doesn't remember.

One good thing about his creepy fast-healing body, Jean supposes, is that his red eyes fade by the time he's out of the shower.

"Good morning," Lancolme says when Jean eventually finds him. He's sitting on the porch in a pair of baggy swim trunks even brighter than the shorts that Jean had donned after his shower. He's mopping his hair and body with a towel, and there's an ATV parked near the steps leading up to the porch.

"There's coffee in the pot," he says, pointing toward a side table with a coffee tray on it. "Cream, too."

"Good morning," Jean replies. "You swim?"

Lancolme raises an eyebrow, but grins. "Every morning," he says. "Well, not when there are storms or high winds, but otherwise, yes. Good exercise, and you don't need two legs for it. You're welcome to join me."

Jean suppresses a shudder. "No, thanks. But I like to run. Is there anywhere I shouldn't go?"

Lancolme shrugs. "No one will be worried by you passing through their land. Or you can run along the beach. It's a couple of miles." He frowns. "I don't think you need me to say this, but I think you should be wary of strangers."

"Yeah. Thanks." Jean pours himself coffee, adds cream until it's pale, pale brown and then adds three spoons of sugar to that. 

"I thought we could go down to the village this morning, eat at the bakery, and talk to the fishermen about your boat," Lancolme says. "But there are rolls, some chicken and the rest of the mangos if you'd like to eat something before then."

Jean feels his face go red. "I'd like that," he says, rueful. "I'll make a couple of sandwiches, if you don't mind. Would you like one, too?"

Lancolme shakes his head, looks a little wistful. "No, thanks. I don't have your metabolism, and I have a weakness for Lorrie's cream buns. Ah, Lorrie Baker, the baker, and actual cream buns, not a euphemism," he adds at Jean's deepening blush, grinning at Jean's expense.

"Sounds good," Jean says. "Um, I'll go make those sandwiches." He retreats to the sound of Lancolme's laughter.

Jean doesn't pretend to be anything other than starving, so he assembles last night's leftovers into two massive sandwiches, wolfs down his breakfast and is practically vibrating with energy before Lancolme says, "Ready?"

"Yes," Jean says, probably shorter than he should, but his body wants to _move_.

Lancolme pauses, tilts his head, and examines Jean's face. "Perhaps you would prefer to make your way to the village on your own and meet me there?"

The sense of relief is overwhelming. "Yes," Jean says again. "I need to get rid of some of this excess energy."

"Lorrie's bakery is past both of the bars, just past the grocery store. I'll wait for you there. Take your time," Lancolme adds. "We use island time, here."

"Island time? Is that a different time zone?"

Lancolme laughs. "No, we tell time the same way everyone else does. We just use it differently. Life is too interesting--or boring--" he admits, "to let it be ruled by a clock."

"Island time," Jean says. "I like that. Thanks. I'll see you soon." He waves, turns to the empty expanse of fields and orchards and sprints away. 

Running feels good. His body doesn't hurt as much as it did yesterday, though his head still aches, worse when he tries to remember. So he lets go of memory, lets go of the lurking fear that he won't like the person he really is, lets go of the worry he feels about his body's super-human abilities, and loses himself in the joy of movement, the freedom of having a powerful body that does what he asks it to and more, the simple pleasure of scratching an unbearable itch to _move_.

As he crosses through the orchards that Lancolme had pointed out the night before, he sees an older woman dragging a battered cart along a row of trees. He recognizes her from the day before and switches direction to help her.

"Mm. Lavril?" he ventures.

She looks up and stops. "M. Canton. Good morning."

"Good morning," he replies automatically, then, "and please, call me Jean. Can I help you with that?"

She studies him long enough that he feels like fidgeting under her assessing gaze, but he holds himself relaxed and ready. She finally gives him a nod, says, "Just 'Lavril,'" and steps away from the cart. "Over there."

Jean takes up the cart and heads in the direction she's pointing. The ground is uneven, not difficult for him to pull a cart over, but he can't imagine what perseverance it must take for a woman in her sixties to drag the heavy cart through the orchard. He's enjoying it, though, he likes having something to do that doesn't involve sitting or sleeping. Maybe Lavril will let him work with her later. 

He stops where she tells him to, then helps her pry the lid off a small barrel of what looks like white paint and pour some into a battered basin. There are maybe twenty trees or so that look newly planted, the soil around them fresh and packed hard. Lavril picks up the basin and a paintbrush and walks to the most distant one, and begins to paint the trunk.

"Why are you painting them?" Jean asks, because, tree-painting?

"Sunburn," she says.

"Trees can sunburn?" he asks, and then flushes when she gives him an amused, but patient look in reply. He watches for a few more moments before asking, "Do you have another brush? I can help."

Lavril shakes her head. "You move along, child," she says. "There's water in the cart. Help yourself."

Bemused, Jean says, "Okay. Well, er. Thanks," before he turns and walks back to the cart. He finds a large, beat-up thermos in it, wrapped in a blanket to shield it from the sun. Condensation forms on the thermos as soon as he pulls the blanket away, so he quickly pours some water into the lid and re-wraps it. 

The water is cold and tastes of lemons. It's better than coffee--he feels like running again. Jean wipes the lid and leaves it on top of the blanket, then turns to wave at Lavril. 

When she ignores him, all he can do is grin, shake his head, and resume his run.

After a few minutes, he's back on the paved road, not too far from the village. He decides to see where it goes. 

It twists and climbs for several miles, occasionally opening into fields, but mostly through jungle. He passes a cleared area with several secure-looking buildings, some well-built bleachers and banks of lights surrounding a smooth expanse of short grass, and figures that's the football field that Lancolme and the kids had talked about. 

It's a lot nicer than he'd thought it would be. The complex is probably a school. Though, there's no children. No adults, either. Even though it's well-kept, it looks abandoned.

Now that he thinks about it, he's only seen little kids, and no one had seemed to think that it was unusual for them not to be in classes. He decides to ask Lancolme about it later, and keeps going.

The day is getting warm enough that he should probably head back to the village before it gets too hot to run. He tops a small rise where the trees have been cut back, offering a panoramic view of the shore and a small, orderly town that couldn't look any different from Saint-Luc than if they'd both been stolen from opposite ends of the world and plunked down together in a desert.

He stops to get a better look. Honestly, the town looks like it could have been air-lifted out of Europe and deposited on Petit Mayreau. Whitewashed stone buildings hung with baskets of bright flowers perch cheek-to-jowl along narrow, curving cobblestone streets, creating a labyrinth that leads, eventually, to a very pretty harbor. A fair number of sailboats bob on the waves, their sails furled. Here and there the labyrinth opens into intimate green spaces, parks filled with hibiscus and other bright, flowered bushes. It's idyllic.

But something seems off. Jean frowns and looks closer. 

Too few people. Too few cars. People should be out and about this time of day, before it gets too warm to do errands. Cars should be lining the streets in haphazard lines, but he only sees a few parked here and there. And they're all range rovers and small trucks, none of the small, family cars that would normally clog the streets. 

A flash of light catches the corner of his eye and he turns to look up the mountain. A chill runs through him. 

He hadn't realized that he'd nearly run to the top of Petit Mayreau's main peak. There's a watchtower above him, several figures clearly visible on a deck that surrounds the perimeter. They're looking down at the town. From the watchers' vantage point, he wouldn't be surprised if they could watch Saint-Luc, too. Who the hell is up there? Military? But he's seen no evidence of fighting. Even guerilla warfare leaves marks in the way people act, the presence of militants with weapons, buildings pockmarked with bullet holes, and he's seen none of that.

Light flashes again. Binoculars. 

Pointed at him.

He stands straight, gazing resolutely back at his watcher. No alarm seems to be raised, just the one man, watching him, the other men watching other areas of the island equally intently. Jean frowns, glances at the town below him, looks back up at the tower. He's still being watched.

What should he do? Should he go into the town, examine it more closely? Or should he go back to Saint-Luc, meet with Lancolme, see if he has any answers?

Instinct warns him that the town below him is dangerous. That if he goes there, he might lose even the small amount of freedom he has at the moment. That he might even lose the few memories he's made in the last two days, and he can't do that, he can't start over again.

Has he started over before? The thought makes him shiver. The island around him fades, and he's slipping into the depths of an unforgiving black sea and he can't get away, can't move and the water's filling his lungs--

He blinks and he's back on the island, the memory--or whatever it is--fading in the reassuring, humid air of a tropical island day.

Lancolme. He needs to talk to Lancolme.

After one last measuring look, he turns his back on the watchtower and resumes his run, back to Saint-Luc.

~oOo~

By the time he arrives back in the village, the sun is midway up the sky and the day holds the promise of thunder and rain later, though Jean sees no clouds on the horizon. But storms blow up fast in the tropics, Lancolme had told him over breakfast.

He slows to a walk when he reaches the village, and looks around on his way to the bakery. The game of checkers is already underway at Christophe's, and the kids are clustered around something on the beach, though they're not acting over-excited. Jean watches as Doudou bends over and picks something up, waves it around. It's a crab. They're fine.

Lancolme sits at a table outside the bakery, reading a paper, with a cup of coffee at his elbow and his crutches leaning against the wall behind him. He looks up and smiles as Jean takes the other chair. 

"Nice run?"

Jean makes an affirmative noise. "Went the scenic route."

Lancolme's eyebrow twitches, but then he lowers the paper and his face reflects nothing but pleasant interest. He says, "You'll have to tell me about it tonight over dinner," and Jean hears, 'don't talk about it in public.'

"Lavril was painting some trees up in the orchard," Jean says instead. "I never knew trees could get sunburned."

Lancolme laughs. "Not rural, then, are you?"

Jean shakes his head, because something tells him that's true. "Give me skyscrapers any day," he says.

"Not many of those around here," Lancolme says, then turns in his seat. "Lorrie?"

A white woman with a long, gray braid and a face adorned with laugh wrinkles comes out of the bakery, wiping her hands on a towel. 

Jean knows her. He doesn't know how, but he knows her. 

She scares him.

"So, this is our new friend, is it?" She tucks the towel into her waistband and offers a hand to Jean. "Lorrie Baker. Baker by name and baker by trade," she says. Her grip is firm and dry.

"Jean Canton," Jean manages to say. He can't let her see his fear. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Lorrie moved here from America a couple of years ago," Lancolme says. "God knows why, but she decided to open a bakery in the most out-of-the-way village on the planet."

"Sun, sea and no competition," she says cheerfully in North American-accented French. She releases Jean's hand. "I'm from Seattle, so sea is a necessity. But sun and no competition were the other big factors in my decision. Now, dear, can I bring you something? I've still got a cream bun or three put aside, and I make the best sweet tea you'll ever drink."

"That sounds wonderful," Jean lies. "Thank you." 

She leaves with a cheerful smile.

Lancolme says, "I had Zobel tow your boat here," and nods toward the harbor. "You met him yesterday. One of the men playing checkers."

Jean looks, and is surprised by the sense of relief he feels at seeing the boat floating serenely in a slip along the stone jetty. 

"I've been thinking," Lancolme continues. "I have a proposal for you that I think could help both of us out."

Jean looks up as Lorrie places a plate of round pastries in front of him, along with a very large glass filled to the rim with ice and rich, amber tea. "Looks good," he says. 

"Eat up," she says, and bustles away.

Should he eat? But if he doesn't, she'll think he's recognized her. Without his memories, he's not sure how dangerous she is. She might hurt someone innocent.

"Coconut cream," Lancolme says. "I hate you. I can only eat one a day, otherwise I'd be the size of a blimp."

"Start running?" Jean suggests. He'll have to risk it. He gives an exaggerated moan as he bites into a bun. 

"You think you're pretty funny, don't you?" Lancolme says. "'Start running,' he says. Tell you what. Me and my van will race you any day of the week, funny man."

"As long as there are cream buns at the end," Jean says. "These're keen."

"'Keen?' Who do you hang out with, rejects from the eighteen-nineties? Stop talking with your mouth full and listen to my proposal," Lancolme retorts. He leans in, elbows on the table. "It involves your boat."

"I'm listening," Jean says, though anything involving him and the boat and the sea makes him shiver inside. Damn it. Everything seems dangerous today. Is the danger real?

"Around the other side of the island, there's a resort," Lancolme says. "A lot of well-off people go there, mainly Germans, Eastern European types. They come to sail, but some of them like to trophy fish, or take boat tours around the islands, and want a local guide and boat for it. They've been bothering the fishermen around here with offers, but no one here has the money or time to clean up their fishing boats to look good for tourists, especially in between catches."

"You want to hire out my boat," Jean says. 

"It's your boat, you could do the hiring," Lancolme says. "But if you want a partner, I'm as good at piloting a boat as I am at driving."

Jean's reluctance to go back out on the ocean wars with his need for some source of income and the practical aspects of Lancolme's idea. "I'd want a partner," he says, thinking. "I'm not interested in doing something like that alone. Not now, anyway."

"Think about it," Lancolme says. He stretches in his chair. "No hurry, and no expectations."

"Island time?" Jean asks.

"Island time," Lancolme confirms. "And now that you've thoroughly demoralized me with your ability to eat a plateful of cream buns and still look hungry, let's go to Christophe's for lunch. Then, if you're up to it, I've got to do some grocery shopping before we go back to the house."

Something inside Jean twists. _Go back to Peggy._ But he can't, because Peggy's lived her life and left him behind. A blinding pain shoots through his head, and he presses the heel of one hand hard between his eyes.

"Jean," he hears, then a hand on his shoulder. "Jean? Are you okay?"

"Fine," he grits out, chasing _Peggy_ through wisps of memories that bleed to excruciating, blinding white the harder he tries to capture them. "Ice headache." 

The pain fades as he loses the small piece of memory he'd nearly caught. "Better now." He drops his hands and tries a weak grin. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

Lancolme doesn't point out that the ice in Jean's tea has long since melted. "I'm glad it passed quickly," he says. "Feel like lunch?"

"As long as we skip any ice cream," Jean says. 

Lancolme chuckles, then stiffens slightly. "Father," he says, just as Jean senses someone behind him.

"My son," Father René says as Jean turns. He finds Father René staring at him, intent. "I see you are still here with us, M. Canton."

"Yes," Jean says, awkward. "Saint-Luc is a very welcoming place." Even if he feels a sense of dj vu and danger.

"Indeed." Father René continues to stare at Jean, and the expression in his eyes puts Jean on edge. "I hope you intend to deliver on the promise you gave me when we first met."

"Promise?" Jean can't remember promising the priest anything.

"Tomorrow is Sunday," Father René says. "You promised to attend my sermon if you were here."

"Yes, I remember," Jean says. He glances at Lancolme.

"We'll be there," Lancolme says, his voice pleasant but his posture screaming tension.

"I look forward to seeing you," Father René says. "Good day."

"Good day," Jean and Lancolme echo.

Jean waits until the priest enters the church, then leans in close to Lancolme. "Are you alright?"

Lancolme makes a non-committal sound. "I believe we were about to go to lunch?" he says.

"Sounds good," Jean says. But as they walk the short distance to Christophe's, he wishes he didn't have to turn his back on the church.

~oOo~

Jean's starting to put names with faces. But getting to know people only heightens Jean's sense of danger, it doesn't put it to rest.

After lunch, he and Lancolme buy diesel for the boat from Renard, the man who owns the garage, and pick up Lancolme's mail as well as groceries at the grocery/general store-cum-post office owned by Zhang Wei, who Lancolme says is a sixth generation descendant of indentured Chinese immigrants from the colonial days.

They duck back into Christophe's to escape a brief downpour. 

The four old men playing checkers wave them over to their table. By the time the rain ends, Jean has learned everyone's life histories. They're all the fisherman: Patrick, Luc, Zobel and Jean-Louis, Zobel's brother. They still take the boats out in the mornings, and Jean thanks Zobel for towing _L'Ange_ to Saint-Luc. But their catch must be small, because none of them talk about markets beyond Saint-Luc. The more he hears, the more he's pretty sure the entirety of it is divided between Christophe's restaurant bar and the small display of fresh seafood he saw at the grocer's.

He realizes something else strange as they walk through the village: there are more homes in Saint-Luc than people living in them. Yet, the empty houses don't seem to be abandoned. Doors are open, front walks are swept, fresh flowers are visible through the windows. Jean sees two older women with buckets and brooms leave one house, make their way to another, equally empty building, and disappear inside.

What he doesn't see is anyone--other than Lancolme--who isn't retirement age or beyond, or young enough to need watching.

He waits until they've returned to Peggy and they've eaten. The dark island night separates them from the rest of the world. It's probably the safest he's going to be on this island.

"Something's wrong in Saint-Luc," Jean says.

"Yes." Dernier carefully sets his empty wine glass on the table. "I'm afraid that you've stranded yourself in a dangerous part of the world, my friend."

Jean nods, thinking. The very old and the very young are often the most at risk in any situation. And while Lancolme is in his prime years, his missing leg leaves him vulnerable outside of a vehicle. He needs a prosthetic. _A prosthetic_ , Jean thinks, _that would make him independent enough to be a threat to someone._

Lancolme probably hadn't refused a prosthetic. It had probably been taken away by the same people who were responsible for the absence of any other able-bodied villagers.

"There's a watchtower," Jean murmurs. "I saw it. And the other town."

"You had quite a long run today, didn't you?" Lancolme's voice is light and teasing, but Jean can hear the strain behind his flippancy. "All the way to Saint-Christophe."

The town on the north side of the island, Jean remembers. It jogs another memory. "The kids ... I hate to tell secrets, but in case you didn't hear it in the van," Jean grimaces, "the kids are using paddle boards to get to the beach. If it's as dangerous as you're saying--"

"We know about it," Lancolme replies, his voice quiet and warm. "We only let them get away with it when there's a fishing boat close enough to help out if needed."

Jean met Lancolme's gaze, saw the understanding. "Good," Jean says. "Good."

"But thanks for letting me know," Lancolme says. 

Jean shrugs. "You already knew."

"Not about the paddle boards," Lancolme says. His gaze is intense. "Thanks for letting me know that you care about the children and their safety."

That's unexpected. "Sure," Jean says, thinking about what he's seen in the village. The old and the school-aged and the infirm, but no one healthy and strong over the age of thirteen or under the age of sixty. The hushed conversations, the quick changes of subject. The way that people are warm on the surface, but watchful and frightened underneath. Not only of Jean, a stranger, but each other. It reminds him of something.

'The Resistance,' a voice in his head whispers. 

"You know," he says, careful, "if I can help at all--"

"My friend," Lancolme grasps his shoulder, then pulls him into a quick, comradely hug. "I believe this of you. But I think," he puts his hands on Jean's shoulders, "I think, maybe, this time you should leave the fight to others."

"If something's going on," Jean says, "I want to help."

Lancolme turns away, gazes at the deeper blackness of the sea. He sighs. "Come. I have a story to tell you, and I think a bottle of wine would be a good accompaniment."

He refuses to say any more until they are settled on chairs on the porch, wine poured.

"To fallen comrades," Lancolme proposes.

Jean raises his glass, and wonders if he has fallen comrades of his own.

They sip their wine in silence. The sea murmurs to them, and Jean can admit that the sound is soothing. But he doesn't trust it. The distrust is bone-deep, like his body remembers something about the ocean that his mind doesn't.

"This island has been my family's home for generations," Lancolme begins. "We, too, were part of the colonial days. It left us with much to atone for. My grandfather, Jacques Dernier," his gaze flickers toward Jean, "took that atonement to heart. When France fell to Hitler, he left Petit Mayreau to join the fight against the Axis powers. I think, perhaps, he felt if he could fight for freedom there, it would lessen some of the shame my family had come to feel for our ancestors' former role as slave owners."

"Did it?" Jean asks quietly.

Lancolme shrugs. "I never knew his heart. But his example? It's one that I have tried to live up to. But I made the same mistake that my grandfather did when I left to fight in Afghanistan. I believed that I would come home to the island I left. Now I know, too late, that soldiers are needed to guard one's home as well as fight wars."

"What happened?"

"It starts with my grandfather." Lancolme glances at Jean, hesitates. "I told you he went to France to aid the Resistance in the Second World War?" When Jean nods, Lancolme smiles a bit, his expression full of affection and memories.

"While he was there, he was captured by the Nazis. He was rescued, weeks later, by a man named--" and again Lancolme pauses and looks at Jean, "a man named Steve Rogers."

Jean frowns. The name seems familiar. 

Lancolme continues. "Captain Steve Rogers was an American. My grandfather joined him as part of a special Allied unit called the Howling Commandos. They began by fighting Nazis, but soon became the main unit battling a specialized Nazi force, known as Hydra."

Again, Jean feels something, like a faint echo from a far-off mountain. He can feel the beginnings of pain build behind his eyes. "Go on," he says.

"Hydra, well. They were the worst of the worst, experimenting on prisoners, torturing, slaughtering entire villages, in the name of science and power. The Commandos destroyed Hydra wherever they found them. In the end, they believed that they had destroyed them completely. But only at the cost of Captain Rogers' own life. He saved America from a plot to bomb all of its major cities, but had to crash his plane in the arctic to prevent the bombs from going off in inhabited areas."

_The plane isn't falling, it's frozen in the air and the ocean is reaching for him, ice and water racing toward him like a tsunami. He can't look away. It hits him with the force of a thousand artillery shells, stealing his breath and replacing it with ice, claiming him in return for the safety of the innocents he's determined to protect. It's a fair trade, he won't fight it, but not even the ocean is as deep and cold as his grief at leaving the people he loves behind._

Jean chokes, has trouble catching his breath.

Lancolme reaches toward him, but pulls back. He takes a deep breath and continues to speak, his voice achingly gentle.

"The war ended soon after. My grandfather came back to Petit Mayreau. But the island wasn't as he'd left it." Lancolme's voice turns grim. "During the war, the Nazis ruled the Atlantic. They even came here, to claim this tiny island as their own. This island became an echo of the greater war, with those who resisted Nazi rule, and those who embraced the politics of the _France de Vichy_. Although the _France de Vichy_ fell when the Nazis were defeated, they left behind a world full of distrust and betrayal and poverty. We've never fully recovered."

Jean doesn't want to hear this. He doesn't want to know what happened to his world after he left it. His head hurts. No, it burns. He buries his face in his hands.

But he can't block Lancolme's words. "Twenty years ago, I joined the French army, determined to do as my grandfather had done, to fight for those who couldn't fight for themselves. Eventually, I ended up in Afghanistan. You know what happened to me there. But it wasn't as bad as what happened to me when I returned.

"In my absence, Petit Mayreau had once again become an occupied land. The able-bodied were gone, lured away or outright kidnapped to work for the most evil remnant of the Nazis. Hydra claimed this island for its own." Lancolme's voice thickens. "The people who remain here ... I knew them. Many of them raised me. I've thought of them as my aunts, my uncles. I've loved them, trusted them. But I don't know them anymore. Some of them I can't help but to continue to trust, but others ..." He takes a deep breath. 

"I'm so sorry, my friend. Hydra lives on, here on Petit Mayreau. Those who remain act as either Hydra agents, or hostages to keep Hydra slaves in line. That is the danger we face. But know this," and Lancolme's voice becomes fierce, "I am by your side, and will fight them to my last breath. You are not alone. Remember that. You will never be alone as long as I am alive."

The pain in Jean's head just gets worse. But right now, he's almost thankful for it. It's protecting him, holding back his memories. He doesn't want them, not yet. He's not strong enough to face the pain in his heart.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I can't--I want to help, but I can't, Lancolme." Shame burns inside him, he can feel its heat grow.

"You aren't responsible," Lancolme says.

"It's just," and Jean shudders. "It's the ocean. It's just so deep, Lancolme. So cold." He feels it, lets the heat in his veins burn hotter in a vain attempt to subdue it. "I can't escape it, not completely. It swallowed everything."

His hands burst into flame. A wave of heat explodes outward, the force strong enough that Jean can feel it stir his hair. He's made of fire.

He can't hurt Lancolme. Please don't let me hurt him.

It takes concentration, but he can feel the flames finally die. 

When he looks up, Lancolme doesn't look afraid. He looks concerned, and gentle, as if Jean were a child. 

"They've done something to you, Jean." 

Jean shakes his head and backs away. "I've got to leave. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt anyone."

"My friend." Lancolme pulls him into a hug. "You won't. You stopped the fire. You haven't hurt anyone. If you leave, I fear that you'll find yourself back in the danger you've escaped. You have to stay, Jean." 

Jean wants to push away, because he likes Lancolme and Christ, he doesn't want to hurt him. But embrace is warm, supportive. He thinks, maybe, right now it's more important to be human than it is to be bigger than human. So he stays still, unable to relax, but unable to pull away, either.

Lancolme doesn't let go. 

When Jean finally gives in, relaxes, feels his heart beat slower again, Lancolme whispers, "I think Hydra has hurt you, Jean. I don't know how to help you. At least, let me give you my friendship."

"Okay," Jean says. "Okay. Yeah. I can ... yeah. I can do that."

And much, much later, he whispers, "Thank you."

~oOo~

They eventually retire to their respective rooms, but Jean doesn't sleep. He suspects Lancolme is also awake.

Tomorrow's Sunday. Jean's is pretty certain something is going to happen, something not good for the people of Saint-Luc. The town is full of Hydra, and Jean suspects Father Ren is one of them. The service is probably a trap.

But if he doesn't go, will Hydra track him down? Even if he leaves here, tries to escape in _L'Ange_ , will they hurt someone in retaliation? Will they hurt Lancolme?

There are no answers in the dark.

The next morning they're both silent over breakfast, neither of them offering any words beyond polite requests for coffee or quiet thanks for each other's courtesy.

After breakfast, Lancolme offers Jean trousers, a shirt, a tie, a jacket, all of which are tight, but fit well enough to look reasonably respectable, if a bit old-fashioned. They each take care with their appearance, shaving, straightening ties, tugging each other's jackets into place. Then they climb into Lancolme's van and drive to the church. 

Jean feels like they're going into battle.

~oOo~

When they enter the church, only two chairs are still available. They aren't together.

Neither Jean nor Lancolme hesitate. Lancolme calmly takes the open aisle seat next to someone Jean thinks might be the artisan tanner he met briefly on his first day in Saint-Luc. Jean takes the seat between Renard and Lorrie Baker. Lorrie turns a bright smile on Jean and pats his forearm. Then she leans in and whispers, "Father René's sermons are always the best."

Jean nods politely, but he feels like a bug caught in a web. He risks a glance around the small group of people, and yes, everyone he knows from the village is there. Several people seem fearful, silent, with tense shoulders and downcast eyes. It's not random seating, Jean realizes. 

It's deliberate. The checker-playing friends are nowhere near each other, and couples seem to have someone sitting between them. The pattern resolves: fearful people surrounded by complacent, smiling people. The smiling people face forward with apparent eagerness, waiting for Father René.

Jean catches Lancolme's quick glance towards him. Lancolme looks grim, but the sound of a door opening makes them both look forward.

Father René enters the nave. He crosses to the pulpit, stands behind it, and seems to examine everyone. When his gaze meets Jean's, there's a calculating look in his eyes that makes Jean's heart beat a little faster. Something is about to happen, and it won't be good.

"Today," Father René begins, "I will talk about sacrifice. 

"Sacrifice is natural. Sacrifice is noble. Sacrifice is necessary, when the _greater good_ outweighs one person's life."

Jean feels something seize in him. His heart beats faster, and he tries to hide it.

"The people of Saint-Luc understand sacrifice," Father René says. "We embrace it. We know that through our sacrifice, the world will become a better place. We know that our Master will provide for us, and that what is not provided is not important to us. We must--and do--trust our Master to know what is best for us. Does not Matthew say, 'do not be anxious for your life, as to what you shall eat, or what you shall drink; nor for your body, as to what you shall put on. Is not life more than food, and the body than clothing?'"

Beside him, Jean hears Lorrie and Renard's murmurs joining others, "Sacrifice for the _greater good_."

He's frozen in place. He can't move. His body isn't his.

"We must trust our Master. For we must remember the first commandment, the most important commandment, states, ' _you shall have no other gods before me_.'"

Jean's mind whites out.

He's dimly aware of slumping, of startled cries around him, of Renard's strong arms pulling him up and out of his chair, of Lorrie's shoulder under his own, her voice reassuring as she and Renard drag him out of the nave and through the door to the priest's rooms, hears Father René's voice continuing on as if the congregation wasn't full of concerned murmurs, hears him repeat, " _you shall have no other gods before me--_ "

And hears no more.

~oOo~

_How did he escape the main lab?_

_It doesn't matter. They've told us to hold him here. There's no way he can leave the island._

_We need to give him another dose of Extremis._

_He's already had four times the normal dose, any more might destroy him._

_The super serum's fighting it._

_But we're on the right track. Baker's adapting the formula to alter his genes faster than the serum can repair them, it should be ready soon._

_Do we keep him, or let Dernier have him a bit longer?_

_Give him to Dernier, neither of them are going anywhere._

Father René?

_But what if he remembers who he is before we give him a new dose?_

_The neural blocks seem to be working, and as long as they do, the conditioning should hold--_

_Fine. Let Dernier come in to collect him, then._

_Is that wise?_

_The easiest way to control either of them is to control both of them. Why split our resources guarding them in two different places?_

_Yes, Father,_ a chorus of voices say.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Blinding pain behind his eyes, the weight of something cold and wet over them.

_who am I what's happening?_

Jean groans and pulls the compress off his eyes.

"Easy, there," Lancolme says. "You've had a nasty episode."

"What happened?" Jean asks. Or tries to, anyway, he can't seem to make quite the right sounds.

"I don't know," Lancolme says. "You had a seizure of some kind. Doctor Littlestone thinks you'll be fine, though."

"Doctor?" Jean forces his eyes open, winces. Damn, it's bright.

"From Saint-Christophe." 

Lancolme crosses the room, the thump of his crutches driving spikes into Jean's head. He hears a blind being lowered and yes, that's better. Not so bright now. Jean opens his eyes again as Lancolme settles into a chair he has drawn up to Jean's bed. 

"Did the doctor say anything else?"

Lancolme shakes his head. "Just rest, and no strenuous activities."

Jean thinks of his restlessness, and sighs. "I don't think I can promise that."

"That doesn't surprise me," Lancolme replies. He sighs, too. "But maybe take it easy the rest of the day, okay?"

Jean grunts and sits up. Nothing spins, so he's counting that as a win. "As long as it's not all in bed."

"I've got books," Lancolme says. "Or I can stay near for a while. Though I'll need to go out for more groceries before the store closes."

Jean thinks. "I don't suppose you have any blank paper?"

"For what?"

"I," Jean shrugs, "I sort of feel like drawing, more than reading. I've been using my logbook, but I'm running out of pages."

Lancolme raises an eyebrow. "Hmm. I doubt that logbooks were designed with drawing in mind. I might have some blank paper. My mother liked to paint. I'll see if there are any blank sketchbooks in her materials."

"What kind of painting?" Working with color sounds better than working in ballpoint pen.

"Watercolor," Lancolme says, and that's perfect. Jean's face must light up, because Lancolme snorts and smiles. "I'll see what I can find."

Lancolme's search is successful, and half an hour later, Jean is sitting on the porch over an easel set at a shallow angle, watercolor paper taped to a board and an array of supplies arranged on the table next to him.

The process of laying out pale lines of color is both familiar and unsettling. Jean's done this before, even if he has no memory of it. Slowly he builds thin washes of color that begin to translate into the rough but tidy grass surrounding Peggy, the line demarcating lawn from scrub, the abrupt difference between land and sea. Skeleton trees appear, then leaf, flowers bloom, shadows fall and the sea plunges deeper and deeper as Jean adds layers of gray and frozen black below the bright blue and white postcard-perfect surface, layers he can't see but knows are there. 

He's startled when Lancolme touches his shoulder.

"The light will be gone soon," Lancolme says. He places a cold-beaded glass on the table next to Jean. "Iced tea, plenty of sugar. May I see what you're painting?"

"Thanks," Jean says. He nods towards the painting and reaches for the tea. "Not very good, I'm afraid."

"Better than you might think," Lancolme says, examining it. "Though this isn't the Caribbean, is it?"

Jean blinks, caught mid-sip. The tea is refreshing. It wakes him up from the near-trance he falls into when he paints. "I guess it isn't," he says, really looking at his painting for the first time.

"Mmm." Lancolme's sound is neutral. "Do you know where it is?"

"North," Jean says. "Cold." He blinks again. "Uh, I think. Maybe?"

"I don't think you need to second-guess yourself," Lancolme says. "Wherever it is, it's branded itself deep inside you."

Jean looks closer. Is that the shadow of a plane, almost lost under the waves?

"Do you remember anything about what happened today at the church?" Lancolme's voice is soft.

"They were talking about us," Jean says. "This afternoon. After they took me--" The memory's gone, although this time, it came and went without pain. He shakes his head. "I can't remember what they said. Just--"

Lancolme waits, and Jean feels a rush of gratitude wash over him. Lancolme. Jean's been so lucky, finding him. Finding a friend, here, one who doesn't push and challenge and be bull-headed until Jean could scream, one who doesn't hide or drown in guilt until Jean could cry, one who doesn't offer wise insights unasked, whose loyalty sometimes makes Jean cringe.

"You're in danger," he tells Lancolme. "Because of me."

Lancolme smiles, but his eyes are sad. "It's not because of you," he says. "It's because of them. Remember that. You would never place someone in danger." He pauses, then says, "There was a meeting of some sort scheduled for today. At the school."

"The field the kids mowed," Jean says. "Is that where they took me?"

Lancolme nods. "The school has an infirmary, rooms large enough for groups to meet in, unseen. It has chalkboards and an old computer system, its own generator."

Jean makes a considering noise. "They planned to meet even before I came to the island."

Shrugging, Lancolme says, "Not too long before. Father René only asked me to take the children to the field the evening before I met you."

So. They planned to meet at roughly the same time Jean woke up on a boat with no memories and no gas. "Do you think they tracked me?"

"I suspect so," Lancolme says. "The boat. It has GPS?"

Jean thinks about the controls, and nods. "I don't understand. Why did they let me go again?"

"Because there is nowhere to run on this island," Lancolme says. "And no one to help you."

A snort of laugh erupts from Jean, startling him. "You're helping me."

"A cripple," Lancolme points out.

"That doesn't matter," Jean protests, frowning.

"No, it doesn't," Lancolme agrees. "But to them--"

"Being crippled is being weak," Jean finishes for him. "We can use that to our advantage."

"Our resources are limited." 

"You said you had an idea about how to use my boat," Jean remembers. "That's a resource."

Lancolme looks thoughtful. "It is," he agrees slowly, thinking. "Although I had only considered it as a source of income for you."

"What if we use it to spy?" Jean asks.

"To what purpose?" Lancolme frowns. "There are no other islands within twenty miles from here, and the island-to-island ship only stops by once every few days."

"They have to get on and off the island somehow," Jean says. "Plane? Helicopter? Boat? Whatever transport they use, there should be fuel depots, communications equipment. Maybe even transport vehicles themselves. What if we could locate those? Either commandeer them, or at least, scuttle them?"

A grim smile slides over Lancolme's features. "Yes. Yes, I see." He's silent for a few moments, and Jean finishes his iced tea. He's feeling more alert than he had been earlier, relieved that there's something that they might be able to do.

Shaking off his introspection, Lancolme slaps Jean on the shoulder. "Get up, monsieur l'artiste. We have a charter business to plan, evil to defeat, and dinner to put on the table."

Jean laughs and yeah. Yeah. This is good.

~oOo~

A little to Jean's surprise, no one seems concerned when Lancolme offers Jean's boat for hires. They receive three bookings immediately from the resort in Saint-Christophe--two fishing trips and an island tour--and just like that, Jean has a small business enterprise and multiple opportunities to spy, which isn't bad for a man with no memories and what he suspects is an assumed identity.

The first day out is a fishing trip. The people who hire them are a honeymooning couple, more interested in drinking and having fun than in landing a trophy. Lancolme pilots the boat to a reef lying about three miles offshore of Petit Mayreau, and Jean takes care of supplies and the fishing gear. They land three nice-sized barracudas with Jean's help, and at the end of the day, Jean and Lancolme drop the couple off at the resort with a styrofoam cooler full of barracuda and a resort employee who assures them that the fish will be cooked by the resort's chef per the couple's instructions. The young bride chirps that she wants blackened fish, and that seems to settle things. The resort employee pays Lancolme, the husband gives him a hundred euro tip, and Jean's feeling like a rich man as they motor back to Saint-Luc. After they pay Renard for the gas he'd given them on credit, Martina Bernabe for the champagne and beer, and Zhang for the fishing gear, styrofoam cases, ice and the food that Lancolme had used to create a very nice and elegantly-presented picnic lunch and canapes to go with the drinks, they have about twenty euros left over.

They go to Christophe's to celebrate with a beer and a meal. After, they lounge at the table, Lancolme reading a three-day-old newspaper and Jean sketching the shadows thrown by the strings of bright lights that are looped through the thatch.

Lancolme folds his paper and lays it on the table. He regards Jean for a few moments. "Twenty euros. And that was with buying the fishing gear outright, instead of in installments," Lancolme says. "Not bad, turning a profit the first time out."

Jean snorts. "A twenty-euro profit." He closes his sketchbook.

"Which will be a several-hundred-euro profit by the end of the month," Lancolme says, serene. "What do you plan to do with your wealth, my friend?"

"There's a little item called room and board," Jean says. When Lancolme shakes his head and starts to speak, Jean raises a hand to stop him. "Look, I know you're comfortable financially, and I'm grateful for your offer to share. But I've also noticed that you're paying someone to come in and keep house for us. I think you might be behind the women who take care of the empty houses, too. And the kids seem to have been mysteriously outfitted in new clothes this week. Leave a guy his pride, okay?"

Lancolme looks sheepish, and stops protesting. "Fine. To preserve your pride."

" _Noblesse oblige_ is alive and well on Petit Mayreau." Jean elbows Lancolme. "You're a good man."

"As are you, my friend," Lancolme says. "Although your appetite is that of a starved hyena."

"I was thinking lion, but we'll go with that," Jean says, grinning.

~oOo~

Jean hates going out on the boat, but he does his best to mask it.

The boat part isn't bad. In fact, he loves the freedom she gives them, the way _L'Ange_ skips over the waves, the brush of the wind over his face as she speeds, the roar of her engines. He enjoys tinkering with her mechanics when they're in dock, even though the engine compartment is cramped as hell for his big frame. Even cleaning her up after a run is fine, because she's a pretty boat, she deserves it. 

Lancolme seems to love her just as much. He gives her pet names, like _mon canard_ and _mon chou _, especially when they're out on the water. Jean figures if he ever finds out that he's not really, well, _Jean_ , if he ever remembers who he really is and he has to leave Petit Mayreau, he'll leave _L'Ange_ with Lancolme.__

__No, the part Jean hates is that they're out on the ocean. During tours, they stick to the shallows so that the tourists can snorkel, or they swim to shore to sunbathe, Jean pulling a float behind them full of champagne and picnic supplies and blankets. The waters are warm and clear, sunlight reaching all the way to the bottom, and it almost, _almost_ could be pleasant, except for the push and pull of the waves, and the currents that Jean senses flowing beneath them._ _

__Out on the open water, the ocean shows her true colors, though she still dresses them in light and sapphire on the surface. But under the surface, the currents run cold. The sun fades until its glow finally disappears in the depths. And though there isn't any ice, Jean knows that it's just a few degrees away, close enough that his body remembers what he still can't remember with his mind._ _

__Slowly, he and Lancolme explore the coastline of the island. They note places that seem to show signs of human activity: buoys that appear and disappear, deserted sections of beach with newly broken tree branches, though there have not been any storms, a couple of places where it looks like the thick mangrove stands that line parts of the shore may be hiding hidden channels, dead and dying trees spanning narrow stretches between live trees, like curtains that don't quite match._ _

__They carefully map each discovery, and hide copies of the map throughout Peggy's empty rooms._ _

__They only go out two or three times a week. Their income rises, the tips consistently high. Jean not only has sketchbooks and pencils, he asks Zhang to order a set of oils, gesso and a roll of heavy canvas, and spends a pleasant rainy afternoon stretching canvases while Lancolme chuckles over Jean's absolute insistence on making sure each is perfectly squared, and the staples holding the canvas are evenly spaced._ _

__On the days they don't go out to sea, Jean helps out where he can. Lavril often accepts some small assistance and repays him with fresh bread drowned in honey, or sweet tea, or fresh orange juice squeezed from the sweet green oranges she picks for Christophe and the grocery store. He loves how little she speaks, but how much she says with her expression and the way her hands are competent yet gentle while she works._ _

__He helps the kids dig clams and learns from them which seaweeds are edible. They play football on the streets. He organizes them into an auxiliary 'home maintenance specialty crew' to help the women who clean the empty houses, setting the kids to tasks like scrubbing windows and sweeping out the sand that accumulates everywhere in the village._ _

__He sits under a tree near Peggy and sketches. He goes to church on Sundays and listens to Father René's sermons. He eats at Christophe's, and drinks some nights at Martina's._ _

____

He sketches everyone. All of the villagers. The men from the supply boat. The tourists.

The secret people who slip into the village late each evening and make their way to the church.

When Lancolme sees those sketches, his jaw goes tight. He meets Jean's gaze, and they both nod. Jean doesn't show them to anyone else, and keeps them carefully hidden in the ceiling of his closet, under a second layer of sheet rock cut to the size of the original ceiling and painted a faded white, which he can remove and replace without leaving any trace.

But mostly, Jean sketches Saint-Luc and the villagers. He's grown to love the little fishing town. Beneath the fear he sees each Sunday, there's a feeling of family, of community, that he craves. He itches to sketch it, capture its beauty, and spends long hours sitting near Lancolme at the bars, at the bakery, on the stone jetty, always with his sketchbook. He knows everyone's names, now, can talk to them about the things that are going on in their lives. It's been so long since he's been part of a family, a real family--

\--where did that come from? 

He doesn't know. It's almost becoming normal, this feeling of an empty past.

He grows tanned, his hair bleached almost white, and feels relaxed, though still not happy. 

Life falls into a pattern. Each morning, Dernier goes out for his swim while Jean runs (he avoids the road, though, with its watchtower and the too-quiet town of Saint-Christophe a few miles away). Jean makes himself a huge breakfast and makes coffee for Lancolme, and eventually they make their way to the bakery for cream buns, where Jean avoids meeting Mm. Baker's gaze. On days with a booking, he helps Lancolme get the boat ready, crews for him during the excursions, refuels the boat and cleans it when they return to Saint-Luc. On free days, he helps wherever he's needed. Most days, there's a project for him that he undertakes gladly. After all, while he doesn't have a memory, he has the only young, able adult body in the village. He hides his true strength as much as possible, though.

When he's not working on the boat or helping someone out, he eats at Christophe's bar, or hangs out at Martina's bar when he's not hungry, just to be fair. He sketches while he's in town, and when Doudou expresses interest in the sketches, he starts teaching him about form and perspective and color and buys him his own sketchbook and pencils. Some days, the ones where the light is so pure it makes his heart ache, he loads his oils and a canvas and Lancolme's mum's easel into a pack and spends the day in the most beautiful spot he can find, painting.

And every night he dreams, of the dark-haired man, of alien creatures, of a woman with red hair and a black man with wings, of a woman whose eyes hold the secrets of the universe, but has the heart and innocence of a child, of a being that's both ghost and machine, of thunder and arrows and knights in red/gold armor, of a giant green monster who looks at him with human eyes, of battlefields in Austria and France and Germany, about a man in a bowler, a Frenchman who loves explosions, and always, always the dark-haired man, who sometimes has long hair and murderous, familiar, beloved eyes and sometimes wears a beard and goatee and talks faster than Jean can think.

He looks at the mirror each morning, and wonders who he is. 

Sometimes he wonders whether he wants to be who he was.

~oOo~

Jean's crouched in the dust, wrestling with a stripped lug nut. He's losing.

He'd like to repay Lavril's generosity by changing the flat tire on her ancient tractor, abandoned in the field where it had broken down, but the damned nuts are not only rust-encrusted, but the hexagon surfaces are rounded from years of impatient application of tire iron to aged, too-soft metal. Lavril should get a set of new ones, though where she'll get the money, Jean has no idea. Maybe there's a scrap yard somewhere on the island where he could scrounge up enough intact lug nuts to replace the ones he's trying--and still failing, damn it--to take off the truck's wheel.

The tire iron slips again, glancing over the back of Jean's knuckles. He curses and sits back on his heels, sucking dust off the abrasion. He wipes the sweat from his eyes, shakes his wounded hand a couple of times until the pain subsides, and readies himself for another go at the tire.

He's strong. He'll feel pretty stupid if he's bested by a rusty lug nut.

Something in the sky catches his eye and he sits back again, looking up. Yes, there's something there. What is it? He squints into the sun, shading his eyes. Light reflects off the thing in blinding streaks of red and gold. Whatever it is, it's flashy. And fast. Really fast.

Too big to be a bird. Too nimble to be a glider. A drone?

Not good. Drones might be harmless, but that's not a given, especially not with how fast and maneuverable this thing is. Drones this sophisticated were almost certainly military issue, not something a hobbyist buys off a shelf or builds in a garage. And definitely not something that's probably native to this island, with its gentle poverty.

He frowns and squints harder. But it's not a drone, either. It looks like ... 

… A man?

Can't be.

Robot? But. Not. He's seen something like this before,

_redgoldspeedarrogancewon'tdoeslayonthewiresacrifice_

but can't place where. His thoughts are like ashes and wind, though he tries to capture them. He almost has it ... 

Pain flares behind his eyes and he loses hold. The memory--if it is one--is gone.

The pain recedes, his mind blank. A flash of red glints in the sky, and he's back, looking up and trying to figure out what's flying above his head.

_Armor._

Not a robot, but a man in armor. Graceful, powerful, fast as a barracuda, but darting through air. Jean's envious; he'll never wear armor like that. He's an on-the-ground, front-line fighter. But what he'd give to be able to fly. 

_Dark eyes full of betrayal, resignation, anger and ... self-hate? Despair? Staring at him._ Seeing _him_.

Jean's throat closes. His heart pounds. He can't breathe. He feels grief.

Mary, Mother of God. Where had that come from?

The armored man swoops low, aiming for the village.

The village.

Jean swears, drops his tire iron, and runs back home as fast as he can.

~oOo~

By the time he gets there, everyone surrounds the armored man, murmuring to each other and staring. No one seems frightened, and the man is talking, gesturing broadly, not attacking. People look excited, awed, resentful, surprised, skeptical, self-important. Normal.

"… strangers?" the man is saying. His accent is Parisian, but he's not a native speaker.

Everyone turns to look at Jean.

"Er," he manages.

The armored man freezes. It's hard to tell with his mask in place, but Jean gets the impression that the man is surprised. Shocked, even.

The impression disappears in an instant. The man relaxes and tilts his head. "So, this is where you ended up." 

He says it in English.

"You know me?" Jean asks, replies automatically, also in English. He sounds American. Has he spent time in America in the past? Maybe this man knows. "Have we met before? If we have, I'm sorry for not recognizing you." He shrugs apologetically but can't unclench his fists, unable to hide all of his frustration. "I'm having some memory problems."

The armored man pauses again. "No," he says after a moment. "Sorry. I thought you were someone else." He waves a hand. "I'm just asking people whether they've noticed any strangers around here over the past few months."

"I see," Jean says. With everyone around, he doesn't want to say anything about the strangers who visit the church at night. It's too dangerous. "Um. Well. I don't know, I just got here. But I guess I might qualify?"

The man shakes his head. "I doubt it. The people I'm looking for probably wouldn't have hung around for long. Might have kept a pretty low profile. And they'd probably be throwing a lot of money at anyone they met in exchange for information."

"There's not any money around here," Jean says.

The man gives the impression he's rolling his eyes, though the mask hides his face. "Yeah, I got that." He turns back to the villagers and switches back to French. "Okay, let me amend my question. Have you seen any strangers other than him," he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Jean, "around lately?"

There's a round of head-shaking. 

The armored man sighs. "Okay." He glances back at Jean, but looks away immediately. "Everything good here? No problems with the neighbors?"

His question's answered by silence and confused looks. 

"Right." He looks around at everyone. "Right," he repeats. "Well, I'll be going, then. Thanks for your, ah, help." He glances at Jean one last time, sketches a salute. "See you around."

Light explodes from his boots and he's flying; within a blink he's just a red and gold streak in the sky.

"That was Iron Man," he hears. Excited voices break like waves against Jean's ears.

"Who is Iron Man?" he asks.

"He's an Avenger." "He's a hero." "He saved New York." "He destroyed Sokovia." "He's a rich man."

So many answers for one man. 

Jean has no answers. He's flailing in the dark, looking for some. He wishes he didn't resent the man who has so many. He nods his thanks, but stops listening.

Iron Man doesn't have anything to do with him.

~oOo~

He knows it's unreasonable to resent Iron Man, but knowing doesn't mean he can control his feelings. At the same time, he can't stop his impulse to draw him, now that he's seen the beauty of Iron Man's armor, the way he moves with power and grace. It would be amazing to fight by his side, to use all of his strength, maybe to challenge Iron Man, see who is the strongest.

Damn. He sounds like a kid worshiping a hero.

He's a little surprised by the amount of detail he remembers when he's sketching Iron Man. He has an almost eidetic memory, though he's not sure how much of it is simply that there's not a lot stored in his memory, so there's plenty of room for details. 

There'd been a dent in the plating at the join of the right elbow, just a dimple, but a flaw that made the man less of a hero and more human-seeming. Only heroes are perfect. Jean's pretty sure that he's not big on heroes, though the thought of heroic men inspires him.

Lancolme drives up on his ATV, doing a neat little maneuver that spins the vehicle into the parking space by the steps leading up to the porch, where he stores his crutches when he goes out swimming. "Coffee ready?" he asks as he pulls out the crutches and uses them to swing himself off the ATV.

"Right here," Jean says, smiling.

Lancolme hops up the steps and takes the other chair. "What are you drawing?" he asks as he pours. His hair is still wet, and seawater clings in drops to his brown skin.

Jean offers his sketchbook, and Lancolme takes it.

"Jean?" Lancolme says after a moment. "This isn't the armor that Iron Man was wearing yesterday."

Huh. Here Jean had been patting himself on the back for his eidetic memory, and it sounds like he'd been wrong. He frowns. "What's different?"

Lancolme looks embarrassed. "Sorry, it's just, I've been a fan of his for a while, now. All of the Avengers, really. The team he fights with," he explains when Jean looks quizzical. "This is his old armor. Back from the invasion."

"Invasion?" For no reason whatsoever, Jean's heart starts to pound.

"The alien invasion of New York," Lancolme says. He's watching Jean now, and he puts the sketchbook on the table to lean forward. "The first time the Avengers fought together."

Now it's not only Jean's heart that pounds, but his head is beginning to ache, too, the ache he gets when there's something right on the edge of memory. Aliens. New York. "Loki," he says, and doesn't know why.

"Yes," Lancolme says. Then, "Jean?"

Jean rubs his forehead, the pain sharp, but it's almost … "Gods," he says, "but not gods. Just people with power." A blaze of red-gold streaking past, a roar of rage that shakes his bones, lightning lighting the sky in never-ending arcs. "A hole. In the sky?" The pain flares and he can't help a groan, breathing hard, chasing the impressions. A city in ruins. The smell of burned flesh and the dust from shattered concrete. Screams. Pain.

"Christ," he says, involuntary as the pain peaks--

And it's gone. Along with the memories. 

Jean bows his head, still trying to catch his breath as his heart slows. "What was that?"

Lancolme grasps Jean's forearm. "You're healing, I think," he says. "I think things might be coming back to you."

"What if I don't want those memories?" There was so much pain and rage and death. He doesn't want that, doesn't want a life where that was his reality.

Lancolme sighs. "I don't know. Maybe they'll go away. Maybe they'll come back completely. Maybe they'll just hang around the edges like they seem to be doing now. You might not have a choice, Jean."

Lancolme's right, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. "I like it here," Jean says. "I really like this life. I love the kids, and the village, and this island. I love living here, in your house called Peggy. Damn it, I even love the damned boat." He chokes out a laugh. "I don't want to lose this."

"You'll always be able to find a home here," Lancolme says.

A home. How long has it been since he last had a home? 

"Thanks," Jean says.

They sit like that for a moment, Jean anchored by Lancolme's firm grip on his arm. Finally, Jean rubs his free hand across his face, wiping away moisture. Tears. "Thanks," he repeats. 

Lancolme gives his arm a last squeeze, then says, "What would you think about hanging out around here today? We don't have any charters, and my doctor would probably be elated if I skipped my cream bun."

Jean laughs, even if it's a bit weaker than usual. "Sounds good to me. I've wanted to do some work on the storm shutters. The ones on the east side are pretty battered."

"Last winter's storms," Lancolme says. "I suppose I could supervise you."

"You can grab a hammer and help," Jean retorts. He feels better. "I'll make some breakfast."

"Eggs Benedict," Lancolme says.

"Oatmeal," Jean counters, and leaves the porch to the sound of Lancolme's laughter.

He's got the water on for the oatmeal when he hears Lancolme's phone ring and Lancolme answering it. He looks for the radio Lancolme keeps in the kitchen, because his hearing is way too good, and Lancolme deserves his privacy. Before he can turn it on, though, he realizes that the voice on the other end of the line is familiar. He can't quite place it, though.

"Yes, I know who you are," Lancolme's saying. "I'm just surprised you know who I am."

"The joys of modern technology," the voice says. "No privacy, no hiding. I was surprised when I saw your last name and did some research. Speaking of which, that's quite some secret you've got going there. Can you tell me where he's staying?"

"He's staying with me." Lancolme's voice is cautious.

"No memory at all, huh?"

"No," Lancolme says.

"I think I know why," the voice says. "Look. He's in danger."

"I know," Lancolme says.

"I want to help," the voice continues. "Got room for another guest?"

"There's always room," Lancolme says. "But I don't think you being here is necessarily a good thing."

"And why's that?" The voice is breathtaking in its arrogance; Jean frowns. They're obviously talking about him, and the voice is more than a little insulting. He can take care of himself, and Lancolme has been the perfect partner to help him.

"Because you being here will only increase his danger."

"Or I could protect him better. No offense, but you're on crutches."

Jean growls. Whoever the voice is, he's a prick.

"I'm also local," Lancolme says, no trace of irritation in his voice. "Yes, he's in danger. But for some reason, they aren't taking him, which gives us an opportunity. We've got a plan."

There's silence. After a moment, the voice says, "Okay. I get that. But I'm telling you, one one-legged guy and one big-ass guy with no memory can't take the bad guys on by yourselves. It's not some movie. It's real life."

"He's happy here," Lancolme says, and this time there's an edge to it. "I know these people. We can do this on our own."

"Sorry, big guy," and the voice actually does sound a bit regretful. "But no can do. Look. I haven't told anyone. I get that this is a secret. We can't let people know he's there. But you need more firepower. We just got back from Martinique, and it's bad. It's a lot bigger than we thought, and too many of the top people slipped through our fingers."

"And that's supposed to give me confidence in you?"

"Just let me bring Vision. He's defense and offense in one."

"And unable to blend in to the general population," Lancolme retorts. "One white outsider has already gained a lot of attention. Any more, and things will start to happen."

"Right. Just me, then. I'll think of a good cover. Save me a room." 

There's the click of a phone being disconnected as Lancolme mutters curses under his breath.

Jean hears him take a deep breath, call out, "Jean?"

"Yes?" Jean calls. He knows. It's been so good, and now it's coming to an end.

"A friend is coming to stay," Lancolme says. "Well, more an acquaintance."

"It's not like we don't have room," Jean replies. He can't tell Lancolme that he overheard, that he's invaded Lancolme's privacy. Numb, he realizes that the oatmeal water is boiling. He measures grain in a cup, pours it in, reduces the heat. "A friend, huh?"

"That's right," Lancolme says. He doesn't sound happy, either. 

"The oatmeal will be done in a minute," Jean says. 

Because really, that's all that can be said.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The next day, Jean and Lancolme have finished lunch and are lingering over beers outside of Christophe's bar. Jean is sketching the kids as they dig for clams and Lancolme's reading a newspaper, when his phone rings.

"Hello?" He's silent a few moments, then his eyebrow goes up and he glances at Jean and away. "Of course," he says. "I'll be there within the hour." He hangs up, looks at the phone for a second, then puts it in his pocket and turns to Jean.

"I've got to pick up our friend," he says. He smiles; it doesn't reach his eyes. "He's in Saint-Christophe."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Jean asks. "I can carry a mean bag." Though he's still pretty angry with the 'friend' who's forcing them to house him even when Lancolme has asked him not to get involved. He thinks he might punch the guy when he meets him, if only for his discourtesy to Lancolme.

'One-legged man.' Bastard.

Lancolme's smile is more genuine. "No, thanks for the offer, though. I'll make him carry his own. Just," he seems to stop himself from glancing around, "maybe hang out here until I get back. Where it's public."

"I can take care of--"

"Yes," Lancolme interrupts. "But why tempt fate?"

Jean looks around, but there's only Father René at a table, writing, and the checkers group arguing over whose turn it is to pay for the beer. "Er?" he says, gesturing with his head. "Really?"

"Yes. Really."

Father René's phone rings, and he answers it. Lancolme's shoulders tense. Jean meets his gaze, and watches Lancolme make himself relax.

"I'm just on edge. Didn't sleep well, still jumpy. I'm heading out," Lancolme says. "See you soon."

"Yeah," Jean says as Lancolme gets up and grabs his crutches. "See you."

He watches Lancolme make his way to the van and get in. He waves as he drives away. Jean lifts a hand in response, but drops it when the van rounds the corner to head toward the highway.

He looks down at his drawing, then glances at the beach. The kids aren't clamming anymore, so he sketches in the background. He thinks this one will make a nice watercolor, if he can catch the way the sun bounces off the water and lights the kids' faces. 

He turns to a new page, but he doesn't really feel like drawing any more.

He doodles instead, lets his hand wander, and runs Lancolme's phone call through his head yet again. He's been so pissed at the arrogance of the unknown man, and his resentment of someone invading Lancolme's home, pushing his way into their business, that he hasn't thought about what he's heard.

It's obvious the man Lancolme talked to is used to getting his way. He must think he's strong, too, because for some reason he thinks he can take better care of Jean than Jean can, and that's just ridiculous. 

Wait a minute.

How did he know that Jean was here? He wasn't calling from the island, Jean would bet on it. So somehow, he'd heard about Jean. It's been a few days since he and Lancolme have taken any tourists out on the boat. It could have been one of them, he supposes, but none of them really seemed to take any real notice of him. In fact, the only person he could think of lately who had reacted to his presence--

He groans. Of course. Iron Man. Iron Man had seemed to know him, even though he'd corrected himself a moment later. He must have told someone.

Jean feels like an idiot.

In fact, now that he thinks of it, maybe it was Iron Man who called. Except Lancolme had said the caller was a white man. Lancolme knows the caller, which probably rules him out as Iron Man. Didn't most super heroes have secret identities? So, Iron Man talked to someone, someone who thinks he's strong, someone who knows about what's going on. Someone who Lancolme knows, but who Lancolme hadn't expected to have known him. 

A man with resources, to have found Lancolme.

If he has resources, does the man know about Hydra? Jean suspects that he must, since he'd seemed to know that the danger wasn't simply general, but targeted.

"M. Canton."

Jean starts. "Father René," he replies, looking up.

"I hope you're feeling better. I was concerned about your collapse two Sundays ago." Father René's eyes are as icy as the ocean's depths.

"I am, thank you for inquiring," Jean says. 

"I see that M. Dernier had business elsewhere," Father René continues.

Jean smiles, trying to act unconcerned. "Yes, he went to pick someone up from Saint-Christophe."

"A tourist?"

Jean shrugs. "Probably. I don't know the person." At least that isn't a lie.

"Ah." Father René continues to stare at Jean. "Do you plan to go out on the boat, then?"

Jean smiles politely. "We have no plans to, but she's ready if we need her," he says. Again, not a lie.

"I see. Good day."

"Good day," Jean replies. He watches Father René walk down the street toward the church.

His collapse. He and Lancolme had got ready for church, Jean sat between Lorrie and Renard ... and that's it. After that, all he remembers is waking in his bedroom and talking with Lancolme about what had happened, and his impression that Lancolme is in danger. He thinks that it's probable that Renard and Lorrie may have been among those who were with him at the infirmary, but only because Lancolme says they escorted him out of the service. Jean's cautious around everyone but Lancolme, but he hates the thought he might be suspicious of innocent people. The only people he has strong instincts about are Father René and Lorrie Baker.

Yet he trusts those instincts implicitly. Father René is involved, whether he's Hydra or simply an informant. Maybe Baker, too.

Jean shakes his head, and realizes he's tapping his foot. He's restless. He ran this morning, but he could use another run. 

Maybe he should meet Lancolme on the way back. Lancolme won't be happy about it since he wants Jean to stay here, in public, but honestly, Jean can take care of himself. Besides, if he's running, he's a moving target. Less chance of getting hit.

He leaves his sketchbook with Christophe and starts walking. Once he's out of sight, he quickens to a jog, because it's too hot to run fast. 

As he gets into his stride, he relaxes. Running clears his head. He can lose himself in the rhythm of pace and breath. 

It's another gorgeous day, the jungle alive and vibrant around him. It's humid, but there's no threat of storms. A flock of large green parrots with blue faces and red breasts flies overhead. Small lizards dart across the road in front of him. He hears buzzing, and sees a hummingbird feeding at a flowering vine. A bird of prey soars in lazy circles, its wings barely moving.

It's peaceful. Meeting Lancolme was a good idea. He hears the van, and quickens his pace.

The jungle falls silent around him.

Jean whirls and falls into a crouch, scanning the foliage. He can't see anything, but his instincts scream that something's not right. Lancolme's van is louder. He's getting closer, returning at a good clip down the road.

Jean hears a groaning sound. He whirls again, in time to see a huge tree topple to the road between him and the next curve.

Lancolme will come around the curve blind. He won't see the tree until it's too late. Jean starts toward the tree, and hears a soft thunk to his right. 

There's a tranquilizer dart stuck in a tree trunk. It would have hit him, if he hadn't moved.

It's a trap.

Jean sprints forward, running full out. He leaps over the tree, small branches catching at his feet, hears another soft thunk, but he lands on the other side without getting hit, and keeps running. He rounds the curve to see Lancolme's van speeding towards him.

He doesn't hesitate. He catches a glimpse of Lancolme's startled face, the wide eyes of a man with a mustache and goatee sitting in the passenger seat, hears Lancolme hit his brakes, and then Jean runs into the van, digging his shoulder into the grill and bracing his legs against the tarmac to stop it. They swing out wide around the curve, but between Lancolme's steering and Jean's strength, they manage to keep it on the road.

It comes to rest on the far verge, five feet in front of the downed tree. Jean whirls and looks for the shooter, but he already knows that no one's there. They missed their chance. 

But they'll come again. He'll be ready for them.

The engine stops and the van doors open, the stranger shouting, "Shit, you asshole!" and Lancolme landing hard on one crutch, shouting, "Jean! Jean, are you all right?" The two men converge on Jean, and he realizes his shoulder hurts like hell.

"'M okay," he says, falling to his knees and clutching his shoulder. Lancolme topples to the ground beside him, the crutch discarded as he runs light fingers over Jean's shoulder and collar bone. The stranger kneels next to him, glancing around and assessing the situation. 

"There was a shooter, but he's gone," Jean says. 

Lancolme curses. "I told you to stay back in the village where you were safe," he says.

"I'm fine," Jean says. "Stop worrying. I'm just a little sore."

"You're lucky you didn't dislocate your shoulder," the stranger says. He's examining the fallen tree, and Jean sees him pull the dart from it. "I take it this tree wasn't here when you drove up?" the stranger asks Lancolme as he wraps the dart in a cloth and returns to them.

"The road was clear," Lancolme says. "Jean. I need to get you to a doctor."

"It fell just now," Jean says. "I thought I'd take a run to meet you on your way back, and just as I got here, everything went quiet and the tree fell. I couldn't let you hit it."

"So you hit us instead," the stranger says. "Jesus. You never think, Cap."

Jean frowns and looks at the stranger. "Cap?"

The stranger hesitates, then waves a hand. "Nickname. I come up with them all the time, don't pay any attention to it. Look," he says, looking around again, "that tree didn't just choose this moment to drop on its own. We need to get out of here."

"This is the only road back to the village," Lancolme says. "But we need to go back to Saint-Christophe. The doctor is there."

"I don't need a doctor," Jean says. 

"He's right We can't go back. You have any cable in the van?" the stranger asks. When Lancolme shakes his head, the stranger asks, "Rope?"

"Yes, mooring line, about fifty feet," Lancolme says. "I picked it up to replace the line on _L'Ange_."

"That'll do. Take care of him," he motions at Jean and starts toward the van, "and I'll rig up a winch. We can raise the tree and rotate it to the side of the road, out of the way."

"I'm fine," Jean says to Lancolme. "Really." He rotates his arm, holding his shoulder. The stranger's right, he didn't dislocate anything, though he's going to have a hell of a bruise.

Lancolme looks back and forth between them. "I see you're used to dealing with emergencies," he finally says.

It doesn't take long for the stranger and Jean to move the tree.

"I can't believe you stopped the van," Lancolme says once they're on their way.

"Me neither," Jean admits, rubbing his shoulder again and kneeling behind the driver's seat to talk to Lancolme. "It was the only thing I could think of."

The stranger snorts. "Idiot move, but it saved us, so I'm not complaining." He turns in his seat, extends his hand. "Tony Stark, by the way."

"Jean Canton," Jean says, briefly shaking Stark's hand. "Nice winch rig."

"Applied force," Stark shrugs. "Things always this exciting?"

"No," Lancolme says, his voice grim. "Very rarely, in fact." He glances over at Stark with a frown on his face.

Stark rolls his eyes. "Okay, I get it, you think it's because of me coming here." He turns to Jean. "Is Dernier always this judgmental?"

"He's rarely judgmental, and only with cause," Jean retorts. This is definitely the jerk from the phone last night.

Stark sighs. "Guess things don't really change, do they?" He looks frustrated and a little sad.

_Brown eyes, defiant, desperate, full of pain and betrayal, anger and despair, a gold-masked form, lying on the ground, and Jean's holding something round. He hears the crunch of metal on metal as he brings it down on an armored chest._

Jean winces. The eyes look like Stark's, but the mask looks like Iron Man. Had they fought? Was Iron Man an enemy? 

No. That's not right. Iron Man is a hero. Why can't Stark be more like Iron Man--

\--Pain spikes in Jean's head.

"Something just happen?" 

Jean blinks, finds Stark almost nose to nose with him, sharp eyes taking in every detail. Jean pulls back, frowns. "I'm fine."

Lancolme says, quietly, "Did you remember something, Jean?"

"Nothing that makes sense," Jean says. "Do I know you?" he asks Stark.

"We've met," Stark says, settling back into his seat. "I don't think you remember, though. Much further?" he says to Lancolme.

"We're nearly there," Lancolme answers. "I think we should go to the estate. The village is too public."

"Sounds good, though I want to take a closer look at the village later," Stark says.

"Lancolme and I have already looked--" Jean says, but Stark interrupts him.

"I'm here on business. Well, a couple of businesses, but if anybody asks, I'm here to see if this is the place I want to set up my KISS project."

"Huh?" Jean asks, as Lancolme says, "KISS?"

Stark waves a hand in the air. "Yeah, Kindergarten Investment School System. A k-through-university educational facility. You want the spiel? I'll give it to you," he says before Lancolme has a chance to answer. "Education is expensive. The workforce needs skilled workers, so we need educated people. It's like a circle. There's a system, but we're investing in it the wrong way. We make the people getting educated pay for the education, which means that only people with money can get the education to get the good jobs. Our workforce pool gets clogged with mediocre people with money while talented people without money never get a chance. It doesn't just hurt the kids. It hurts industry, makes it less productive. 

"So how do we get poor people with talent into the education system? The government's not going to pick up the cost of a graduate degree. So banks step in. But not everybody can get a loan. That means only a fraction of the natural talent goes to school and graduates, usually with debt piled up a mile high, right when they need money to get started. Banks are making money, but most industrialists--like me--end up fighting over a few bright and shiny talents who are scared to take a chance because they're already deep in debt. Follow me so far?"

"Er," Jean says, while Lancolme nods. 

"We need young, debt-free risk-takers with excellent training. What would happen," he says, animated, "if industry, the actual businesses that need skilled workers," he holds up a hand even though no one tries to interrupt him, "what happens if they pay for the school?"

"Uh," says Jean, but Stark's on a roll.

"Idiots might say, 'Hey Tony, that bites into profits, that's a no go in a capitalist market structure, go away.' But what if a school is the foundation of a more profitable market structure, one that still benefits capitalist ideals?" He's excited now, his hands moving gracefully, a smile on his face as he glances back and forth between Jean and Lancolme, sitting sideways in his seat.

"For example, I start a project, say, one that employs the best in engineers and architects, to build a complex devoted to scientific research. Locate it someplace where there's natural energy sources available, like say, near an ocean in a sunny, windy climate, maybe a little geothermal activity to tap into? And I build a scientific paradise, with state-of-the-art facilities, labs that make you cream in your pants, reasonable administrative overhead because hey, unlimited natural energy's available, so all I'm paying for after the initial infrastructure investment are people and equipment. I hire the best and the most innovative scientists available, get them whatever they need, settle 'em in. I start generating things. Theories, ideas, engineering marvels. Big money on the market, pays for itself in a few years, then rakes in the cash. Still with me?"

Both Jean and Lancolme nod.

"Okay, but hey, time passes and scientists age, because we still haven't figured out how to be immortal except for the Asgardians. We need new scientists. 

"Now, scientists need a hell of a lot of education. They need to start young. Which means generating a scientist from scratch is expensive. The way things work now is that new scientists are generally mediocre or deep in debt, like I said before. So I might not get the best minds, just the minds with some money attached, and all of a sudden, my big investment is draining me dry, the ideas coming out are dull and stupid. Not even low overhead can save a paradise that's bleeding money. I need a way to keep attracting the best and the brightest, and keep the cash flowing." Stark takes a deep breath, his smile happy, eager. "So, for a nominal additional upfront investment, plus, say, room, board, instructors, supplies, I attach a school to my paradise project right at the beginning. Set up a KISS to generate scientists. It could be artists or chefs or business executives, whatever, but me, I'm going with scientists. The school generates scientists, scientists generate money. Kids go for free all the way through, toddlers on up, so once they've got their degree I have people with no debt and nothing to worry about. Everybody knows it's the kids who take the risks, and without any debt holding them back, I've got the perfect setup for new ideas to explode and expand at the time of life when risks don't seem like risks at all, just neat ideas."

"Huh," Jean says. The idea might have some merit. 

"Yeah," Stark says. "Makes you think, right?"

"Why here?" Lancolme asks. "Other than the access to natural energy."

"It's an experiment, and experiments need isolation," Stark says. "Control for as many factors as possible, then maybe we can use it as a model for other places if it's successful. I want to talk to people here, pitch the idea of a scientific think-tank with a school attached that catches kids young and trains them up for free, builds a little product loyalty into 'em, gives the ones who want a science career something concrete to work toward, and gives the ones that want to do something else the resources to explore other careers. Scientific communities need bankers and businesses, hospitals, service industries, hell, even artists and entertainment. There are opportunities for all the kids, no matter what they want to do. Petit Mayreau gets a new school system out of it. A sustainable, eco-friendly power grid. A free teaching hospital. Infrastructure like roads, ports, an airport. Money for business development. If the experiment works, this island could have a self-sufficient economy that has a pretty limitless future ahead of it. And I'm thinking we can do it with a negative carbon impact if we put a strong emphasis on eco-development as part of the construction and curriculum."

"My god," Lancolme says. "This isn't just a cover story, is it? Because ..." he trails away, but Jean can see how much he likes the idea.

"It's not just a cover story," Stark says. "I've been talking to friends, we've been thinking about this for a while. This is the kind of location that should work, I've got the money to get it going. All we need to do," he says, face suddenly grim, "is get rid of Hydra."

~oOo~

Stark doesn't shut up.

His ideas are good, but they're huge. And fast, the guy thinks at a speed that makes Jean's head ache. 

During the rest of the drive, Stark doesn't mention Hydra again, just talks about his KISS idea, and the heat ('what do you mean, the van doesn't have air?'), and Jean's looks ('I wouldn't take you for the surfer dude type. Those psychedelic trunks, I get dizzy just looking at you, wear khaki and plaid. Christ, I never thought I'd say that'). 

When they reach the estate, Stark goes over the van inside and out to examine all of the modifications that allow Lancolme to operate it, and promises Lancolme that he can build him a hydraulic lift that will make the van 'kneel' so he can get in without having to pull himself up into the driver's seat. He keeps up the chatter while Jean's unloading the van and they go indoors, where he walks backwards while inspecting the interior of the house ('you need more fixtures, and really, only two outlets in this room, are you crazy? I can rewire this room in an hour tops. Wait. Is that a rotary phone? It's hooked up? You mean you have a _telephone exchange_ here?').

"I have a mobile, M. Stark," Lancolme points out.

Stark ignores him, keeps playing with his phone. It's elegant, a wafer-thin piece of glass that displays floating images unlike anything Jean has ever seen. Stark waves it around. "When did this island get stuck in time? 1957? But, hey, it can work to our advantage. We can just build everything from scratch," he continues. "This old stuff probably doesn't work all that well anyway, right? Nobody's going to miss it."

He keeps poking into each room, waving his phone around and peering at it from time to time, _and he doesn't stop talking_. It's driving Jean crazy. Stark ends in the kitchen, standing in the middle of it and turning around as if inspecting every niche. 

"Got anywhere you hang out when you go outdoors?"

"A porch. Through there," Lancolme says, pointing at the Dutch door that leads outside.

Stark walks over to a window, looks out. The sun hangs low, and he squints as he looks toward the ocean. The waves are nearly non-existent, and the water reflects light like a sheet of glass.

Stark turns his back on the outside world and says, distinctly and nonsensical as hell, "Friday. Baby. Protocol five zed seven alpha zed."

Jean winces and covers his ears as a high-pitch whine assaults them.

"Whoops!" Stark says. "Modulate for super-ears."

The whine disappears. Jean rubs his ears. Lancolme just looks confused.

"Set up a perimeter, sweetheart," Stark says.

And then there's the sound of falling shells, and Jean's ducking, pulling Lancolme to the floor, shouting, "Incoming!" 

Stark's eyes go wide and he's saying something, but Jean can hear the shells impact, a damned circle around the house, and the next second he's up and snarling at Stark, has him by the collar and squeezes, growls, "Traitor," and Lancolme's grabbing him by the belt and saying, "Jean, it's okay," and Stark's choking, "Wait, it's safe, I swear!"

Jean freezes, breathing hard, but he's not letting Stark go.

"They aren't explosives, they're my defensive tech," Stark wheezes. "I called them down out of orbit, they'll help protect us. Damn it, you crazy bastard, just trust me for once, would you?"

"Defensive tech?" Jean says. He lets up on the pressure against Stark's throat. Behind him, Lancolme lets go of Jean's belt.

"This whole place has been bugged all to hell," Stark says. "There are cameras in the trees over there watching all of your comings and goings. My guess is that they have long-range parabolic ears on you from there, too, so they can hear you better when you're outside. Even the van's bugged."

Lancolme reaches for a chair and sinks onto it. "We've been under surveillance?"

"For a while. Some of the units are pretty archaic, in tech terms, anyway. At least two, three years old. But some of it's pretty up-to-date. It's active, not leftovers."

"We've discussed things," Jean says, his heart sinking. He lets go of Stark.

"About Hydra?" Stark asks, rubbing his throat.

"Yes."

"Then we need to throw out anything you've ever discussed and start fresh," Stark says. "I'm going to have bruises, Canton. Over-dramatic bastard."

"Sorry," Jean says, and Stark waves him off. He looks normal again, just a little shaken and, oddly, sad.

"We've also noted things down. We've hidden all of the materials," Lancolme adds.

"Sorry," and Stark looks like he means it, "but my guess is that anything you've done up to now is probably compromised. Better than even money, they know all your hiding places and have copies of all your notes."

"Damn." Jean wants to punch something. "I take it you've jammed their equipment?"

Stark nods. "They can't see or hear anything long-range right now, and their in-house bugs are toast," he says. "But they've also shown that they have access to the house. They might not be able to use their electronics, but this place is way too big to defend if they send in uglies. The perimeter I set up will keep them out for a little while, but not more than maybe, say, ten minutes. Just enough time to give us a heads up and put whatever defenses we have into play."

"What do we do?" Lancolme asks.

"I can get us off the island--" Starks starts to say, but both Lancolme and Jean react.

"No."

"No!"

Stark sighs. "I thought you'd say that. Honestly? I'll have a ship here by this time tomorrow. We can bring in some bodyguards, cannons, my own defensive and offensive toys, be pretty impervious. Unless they've got a sub or long-range missiles, of course," he adds. "And we could probably defend against those, too, if we get enough heads up time. We stay on the ocean at night, come back to the island during the day."

"No," Lancolme says. "You and Jean can do that, but this is my home. There are people here who need me."

"I won't, either," Jean says. "I'm sticking with Lancolme." Besides, the thought of living on the ocean makes his skin crawl.

"Aaand that's what I figured you'd say," Stark says. "Right. I've got more tech, but we need a plan. You two know the area better than I do. I have a leg for you, too," he adds, turning to Lancolme. "You can practice with it a bit, but frankly, it should work just like your flesh leg did when you had it. Those crutches paint a huge target on you."

"I--" Lancolme looks shocked. "Thank you. I ... thank you."

"You look like you're in pretty good physical shape," Stark says. "But it takes different muscles to use crutches than it does to walk. You'll probably be sore for a while, but nothing some over-the-counters can't control. I can show you how to attach it tonight, then show you how it works. Then we'll need to start planning."

"M. Stark," Lancolme says, but Stark waves him silent.

"Ixnay on the thanks. Don't worry about it, it's not humanitarian or anything, just common-sense defensive weaponizing," Stark says. "You're only as strong as your weakest link, blah, blah, blah."

Jean's astonished by Stark's ability to be a jerk even while giving Lancolme a gift that will change his life in the most profound way.

"So," Stark says, rubbing his hands together. "I'm starved. When does your chef get here?"

~oOo~

While preparing dinner, Jean and Lancolme discover that Stark is incompetent in a kitchen to the point of lethality. After an incident involving onions ('huh, I didn't know they contained sulfur,' Stark observes), they banish him to the table with a bottle of wine and his phone.

"I should watch people cook more often," Stark says, rapidly tapping something into the phone. "It's boring as hell, but the impromptu chemistry lessons might come in handy, in a horrifically low-tech way. Did you know nutmeg is a poison? I did not know this, until Dummy dumped a container of it into one of my smoothies." He looks thoughtful. "Tasted pretty good, but it had a kick. A definite kick. And not the good kind. I know my kicks. Good kicks, bad kicks, 'hit me again' kicks. In the lexicon of kicks, I would qualify nutmeg poisoning as a full-whomp ass-kick. Not the worst hangover I ever had, but right up there."

Lancolme's amused, but Jean is just irritated. "Do you make fun of everything?" he snaps.

"Not Pepper," Stark says. "Everything else is fair game."

"What's special about pepper?" Lancolme asks.

"'Pepper,' not pepper," Stark says. "As in, one-time love of my life, on-going CEO of my business. Virginia Potts. I wrote an ode, once. She's forbidden me to ever utter it again. According to her, she owns the copyright to it and will sue me for every penny I have if I so much as quote a partial line of it."

"I think I like her," Lancolme says, laughing.

"Yeah," Stark says, smiling. But Jean is surprised to see there's a pained look to Stark's eyes. "She's the best." He drains his wine glass and refills it. "Nice vintage, by the way."

"My family has always been partial to Château Léoville. Jean, the fish is ready. Would you mind carrying it to the table?"

"Got it," Jean says. 

Stark plays with his phone through the meal, alternately frowning at it and snorting. "Geez, Rhodey," he mutters at one point. Later, "Damned brat, do your homework!"

He never apologizes for his inattention; in fact, he doesn't even seem to realize he's being an ass. And despite his claim to be starving, he barely eats anything other than his salad and a bit of the baked fish and leeks. Lancolme and Jean exchange a look, Jean rolling his eyes and Lancolme smiling and shaking his head. 

Stark's so damned annoying. Jean's glad that Lancolme doesn't seem to be offended, but then again, Lancolme takes things in stride. Even Stark, it seems.

After dinner, Stark brings out Lancolme's new leg. Jean sees the joy in Lancolme's face and the critical pride in Stark's, and okay, maybe the man isn't as much of a jerk as Jean thought.

Jean slips outside to give Lancolme some privacy while Stark shows him how the leg works. Hydra can watch him and be damned, he needs some air. 

It's dark, the new moon a sliver against the immense arc of stars above him. He leaves the porch, looking up. It's like he's falling into an infinite frozen darkness.

But this icy black is different to the depths of the ocean. There, the darkness is absolute. It holds him immobile, frozen, trapped beneath the weight of nearly three-quarters of the world. It kills--life, hope, time, memory--all dead, all crushed.

"Jean?"

Lancolme's voice is quiet, but Jean can hear the emotion he's suppressing. He turns and looks.

Lancolme is on the porch, half-lit by the kitchen lights behind him. He's standing. 

On his own. On two legs.

Jean's eyes burn and his throat feels thick. "You look good," he says.

"I feel good," Lancolme says. "It's strange and familiar at the same time. M. Stark was correct, the muscles I use are not the same." He takes a hesitant step forward with the new leg, but Jean notices that he's still got one hand on the wall, not quite trusting his balance.

"It's a prototype. M. Stark says that he knows a doctor. That she might be able to interface the leg with parts of my nervous system. I might be able to feel my foot." Lancolme's last words are choked and he looks blindly into the dark, past Jean, toward the ocean.

"She helped a buddy of mine," Stark says, stepping outside. "Legs. Paralyzed. An accident. I built a prosthetic for his lower spine and legs, but," he shrugs, "it wasn't enough. He needed to feel his lower body. She's treating him, regrowing some of his nervous system. It's a slow process, still experimental. But we killed a bottle of scotch last week. A celebration. I shot a rubber band at his leg and he felt it." He scratches his forehead. "She thinks maybe she can help Dernier, too."

Jean will kill Stark if he's giving Lancolme false hope. "Sounds amazing," he says. "Congratulations."

Lancolme looks back to Jean, and his sudden smile is blinding. "Thank you, Jean."

Stark claps his hands together. "Yeah, okay, the music's swelled and the camera lens has gone soft. Let's put away our popcorn and get back to planning how to take out Hydra."

And yes, Jean's pretty sure that one day he'll kill Stark. The asshole.

~oOo~

"We're a little low on heavy hitters these days," Stark says after they settle back around the kitchen table. "It means it's taking us a little longer than usual to take out Hydra facilities."

"I heard," Lancolme replies, nodding.

"Well, I didn't," Jean says, annoyed. "What are 'heavy hitters'?"

"The Avenger power houses. Right now, that's me and Vision. Spiderman helps when he can, but we keep him mainly in New York." Stark frowns and shifts, looking uncomfortable. "And yeah, the Avengers. It's just the three of us, though Daredevil's helped out once or twice when we've had issues in Midtown West."

"How are you a 'heavy hitter'?" Jean asks. 

Stark looks surprised. 

Lancolme coughs. "Jean, M. Stark is Iron Man."

"Call me 'Tony,'" Stark says, but he's watching Jean like a hawk.

"You're Iron Man?" A second too late, Jean realizes that his incredulity is less than complimentary, as he sees a hurt expression flicker across Stark's face. 

And something like resignation? Why would someone like Tony Stark be hurt by some amnesiac islander's opinion, and why does he look like Jean's reaction is something he expects? Isn't Iron Man--Stark--supposed to be a hero? He's risked his life to save others' lives, he doesn't have to prove himself to anyone. Someone as rich and powerful as Stark is, someone as smart as he seems to be, should be pretty immune to what other people think of him.

A second later, though, and Stark just rolls his eyes. "Come out from under your rock, Canton. Yeah, I'm Iron Man. Everybody knows that. Well, except you."

Jean remembers Iron Man's grace and speed, the power held by the armor he saw. And yes, he does see some of that in Stark, now that he's looking. He examines Stark with new eyes.

Stark's older than Jean, probably by a good fifteen or twenty years. He's fit, but now that Jean looks closer, there's a weariness in his eyes that probably means he's spent a good part of his life fighting. Still, he looks strong and confident, and Jean's just seen what Stark's technology looks like in action. So yeah, maybe he is a powerhouse. But it's hard for Jean to take that on faith. "You said we'd met before," Jean says. "When?"

Stark and Lancolme both go still, then Stark sighs. "Before I answer that, I need to ask you a question," he says.

"Go on."

"Are you happy here? I mean," he says before Jean can reply, "theoretically, if Hydra wasn't here, if you could spend the rest of your life living here like this, would you be happy?"

Jean pauses. The villagers are friends, and Lancolme is family. He's uneasy being so close to the ocean, but he can live with that, he thinks. The life on Petit Mayreau is peaceful, and there are people here who need him. "If I didn't have other responsibilities, other people," he says. "Yes."

"You don't," Stark says, and god, Jean wasn't ready for that, for how much it hurts. No one? Has he really gone through life without finding people to love, who love him back? 

He remembers how hollow he felt when he woke on the boat.

"There's nothing that would tie you down to anywhere else," Stark continues, each word a brand on Jean's heart. "You've got friends, but other people have already taken on your responsibilities, and your friends ..." he shrugs and winces, "well, they're not around much, anymore. But it's not like they couldn't visit you here."

"I see." It hurts. It really hurts.

"You've made friends here, Jean," Lancolme says. He stands--stands! No crutches!--and walks over, kneeling by Jean's side. "I'm not going to talk you into staying, but know that you're welcome. You could make your home here, if you want."

"Thanks," Jean says. Lancolme is a kind man. It makes a little of the pain go away. "If I don't have ties anywhere else, then, I think this would be the place I'd choose, if I could choose anywhere."

Stark's smiling, a small quirk of his lips that Jean thinks is the most honest and warm expression that Jean's witnessed from him. "We met in passing, a long time ago," Stark says, his voice quiet. "But I think we were friends. At least, I hope we were. On my side, we were. You used to call me Tony."

"Oh," Jean says, flushing. Stark says they were friends, yet Jean's been more annoyed by the guy than friendly toward him. He's feeling guilty about it, now that he knows. "I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"No sweat," Stark says. He shrugs again. "You seem happy here. That's important. We all have to leave our pasts behind if we want to move forward." He wrinkles his nose. "And, hey, can we leave it at that? Really? I mean, I get the heartfelt emotion thing, but it's pretty awkward when it's just on one side, right?"

Jean can't help it, he laughs, and Lancolme smiles and returns to his chair. "Yeah, I guess so. Sorry again. So, we've got Iron Man on our side," Jean says, steering the conversation back to where he'd derailed it. "What other advantages?"

"Him," Stark nods at Lancolme, "you. Me. My brains, that is, not just the armor. Maybe a day or two to get ready. Lots of tech. Some of it I brought, most I can call if we need it. I set up a backup plan with a friend before I flew here, so if we need him, Vision can be here in a couple of hours. You don't know Vision," he adds to Jean, "but he's a fucking big gun, believe me. It's just, with so few of us these days, he's better left in reserve. Then there's the ship coming with reinforcements."

"We have transport," Lancolme says. "My van, his boat," he nods at Jean. "I have weapons, too, though not many. A couple of handguns, a rifle, ammunition."

"What do they have?" Jean asks.

"They outnumber us," Stark says. "When I flew by the other day, I saw some facilities that are pretty heavily dug in on the other side of the island, and a watchtower. The town I landed in is pretty fortified, too."

"They have hostages," Lancolme says. "It's our greatest vulnerability."

"Yeah," Stark agrees. "Look. About that." He scratches his beard. "There was a huge Hydra facility on Martinique, bigger than we realized. Vision and I brought down the facility, but the bigwigs got away. There were a lot of civilians there, looked like slave labor. Kids, some of them maybe fourteen, fifteen, a few even younger, but mostly adults. I talked to a guy who told me he and his wife were taken from Petit Mayreau, and that his kids were here as hostages. That's why I flew over. To check things out."

"Are they safe?" Lancolme asks, his voice urgent.

"I called in some back up. We got them out," Stark says. "But we're still sorting out who's who. Who's Hydra, who's a victim."

"And even if they're free," Jean says, his heart sinking, "it doesn't mean the people here are in any less danger. In fact, they may be in more, if Hydra doesn't have any use for them as hostages."

"Dear God," Lancolme says. He looks shattered. "We have to help them. There are children," he pleads.

"That's the plan," Stark says. "But there's more, and it's not good news. When we were finally able to look at what they were working on," he pauses, looks grim, "we found a lab. And a new strain of Extremis. A bio-engineered nanotech virus," he explains when Jean raises an eyebrow. "It manipulates genes."

"I see," Lancolme murmurs. He looks at Jean, then glances away.

"It looks like this strain isn't only about the instant regeneration and super strength," Stark says. "It induces some kind of susceptibility to mind control, too."

"What are the symptoms?" Lancolme asks, looking grim.

Stark's foot starts bouncing. "The biggest one is one hell of a kaboom," he says. "A by-product of rapid cellular regeneration if you're infected and you can't control the process. It heats the body up from the inside. The regenerative aspects of Extremis counteract it until it reaches critical temp, around 3,000 centigrade. Then the infected person explodes. The version I've worked with in the past was controlled by the infected individual's thought, but this version seems to have some kind of damper for the brain built in. The surviving subjects we found didn't show any significant independent brain activity, and were highly suggestive."

Heat. Jean's heart speeds up. He glances at Lancolme. "Is the heat constant?" he asks.

Stark shakes his head. "A body runs warmer, but with this new strain, it looks like the brain activity is controlled by a third party. If the brain is properly stimulated, I suspect the heat fluctuates in proportion to the stimulation."

"You said it gives super-strength?" Jean asks, his voice hoarse. 

"Yeah," Stark says. He's examining Jean, now. "Any reason you ask?"

Should he tell Stark? He might be wrong. But he isn't, he knows it, and if there's mind-control involved, then Jean could be a liability. He feels sick. "I think I might be infected," he forces himself to say.

"Okay," Stark says. "I was afraid of that. But it might not be as bad as it could be."

"And why is that?" Jean snaps. It's bad. It's really bad. If Hydra can control him ... 

"Because of who you are," Stark says. "Canton. You're special. Different. Your body should reject the virus."

Jean can't look at him, can't look at either of them. Instead, he picks up a pen from the table beside him. He concentrates, but nothing happens. He tries to remember how it felt, and he can, but it's like the heat isn't as quick to rise as it had been before. _Memories,_ he thinks, _it's worse when I'm trying to remember something._ He tries to think of the man with the metal arm, tries to remember his face and oh, god, Bucky ... 

His hand warms, slower than before, but it warms, then glows.

The pen melts.

"Well, that's graphic," Stark murmurs. "Shit. Okay. Time to re-evaluate. Though it's encouraging to see you do it with your own mind, I guess." He pauses, thinking. "First things first. Have you had any blackouts? You know, where maybe ..." He gestures in a 'you tell me' sort of motion.

"Someone controlled my mind? Once, a couple of weeks ago," Jean says, numb. He's a Hydra weapon. Hydra has infected him, and they want to use him. He needs to tell Stark and Lancolme everything he knows, even though it's not much. Maybe Stark can figure out some answers. If he can't, then maybe he can figure out a way to take Jean out of the equation, if worse comes to worst and Hydra uses him to try to hurt other people.

"We were in church," Lancolme says. "It was just after Jean arrived. We attended, aware that Hydra might try something, given Jean's symptoms."

"Did you see them do anything? Was there, I don't know, some creepy power stick of doom or something?" Stark asks.

Jean shakes his head. "No. Father René was giving a sermon," and he tries, but there's nothing. "And then I can't remember."

"Did anyone jab you with anything? Touch you? Whisper something to you?" 

"I don't remember," Jean says, running his hand through his hair.

"There was some sort of call and answer," Lancolme says. "We've never done that before. Or since."

"Can you remember what they said?" Stark asks.

"He was talking about sacrifice," Lancolme says, and Jean's heart starts pounding. "And the first commandment--"

"Stop!" Stark is at Jean's side. "Can you hear me?" he asks.

Jean manages to nod.

"Triggers," Stark says. "Damn it. I just don't get how they're doing this," he adds, running a hand over his face. "It shouldn't work with you."

"Jean?" Lancolme is kneeling by him now. "Are you alright?"

"Calm down, Canton," Stark says. "Just take deep breaths, or something. Relax. Uh," he snaps his fingers, "yeah, can't hurt, worked for Brucie. Canton, breathe in through your nose for a count of three, hold your breath for three, and then breathe out through your mouth for three. Got it? Now, with me." Stark breathes deeply, and Jean follows.

After a couple of tries, the band around his heart loosens, and Jean can breathe again. "Better," he says.

"Okay, good," Stark says. "You, me, we need to talk later," he adds to Lancolme. "But where he can't hear. I'll rig up some kind of white noise generator for him to carry, in case they try something again at some point."

"I'm right here," Jean says.

"You're compromised," Stark replies, almost absently, but his words land like a blow to Jean's stomach. "We need to plan around you." He frowns, looking at nothing for a few seconds, then turns back to Jean. "Let me see your head," he says.

"What?"

"Your head," Stark says, gesturing impatiently. "Come on, don't be shy, let me look at your noggin, Rog--Canton."

Stark's crazy, but he's watching Jean like Jean's the crazy one, so Jean sighs. "Fine." He leans forward and feels Stark's fingers searching his scalp. They pause, then retrace a small area. 

"Your hair's shorter here," he says. "Not much. Jeez, I don't believe it. Even your hair is super-powered," he mutters.

"I get headaches sometimes," Jean admits. "Not as much anymore. But when I get them, that's where it hurts worst."

Stark sits back on his heels and pulls out his phone. "FRIDAY, babe, you get that?"

"Always, boss," a young woman answers. "Calculating now."

"Assistant?" Lancolme asks.

"You could say that," Stark answers. "I built her. She's an AI. Artificial Intelligence. By the way, FRIDAY, lock down any identity-related shit related to amnesiacs in the room, okay?"

"Anything for you," she purrs. "Based on previous medical history, M. Canton's body should have rejected any implanted devices by now."

"We're talking gray matter here, encased in the skull," Stark says. "While his brain cells probably regenerate, I'm thinking the process could be slower since the cells normally wouldn't work that way. And if there are implants? Usually his body would shove those out, but if they're in his skull, the bone might keep it inside. Thoughts?"

"This is a bit macabre," Lancolme says. "You're talking about the inside of Jean's head."

"You think they've implanted something in my head?" Jean asks. "Could that be why I can't remember anything from before I came here?"

"It wouldn't have helped," Stark says.

"The probability of M. Canton's body successfully rejecting a device implanted into his brain behind sealed bone is less than seven percent," FRIDAY chirps. "A distinct possibility, boss."

"If there's something there, I want it removed," Jean says. "If something's there, and it's taken out, would I get my memory back?"

"If you were anyone else, I'd say the chances were pretty low," Stark replies. "But you?"

"Probability of partial memory loss, 78 percent," FRIDAY says. "Probability of majority of memory regained is difficult to predict, but could be as high as 82 percent, boss."

"I think he's been remembering more," Lancolme says.

"Is that true?" Stark demands.

Jean nods. Not a lot, but the headaches aren't as frequent, and the flashes of memory seem a little more spontaneous.

"The neural pathways may be re-routing around any obstruction," Stark says, looking thoughtful. "The brain's pretty adaptable."

"This is still speculation," Lancolme points out. "Jean, you need to be scanned to see if you actually have any foreign objects in your head."

"There aren't many other possibilities," Stark says. "Not for him. And since I don't have the right armor with me, I can't do a scan myself."

Jean opens his mouth to answer, when the side of the kitchen explodes.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Jean shoves Stark under the table even as he tackles Lancolme, shielding him with his body. He hears Stark say, "Shit!" and feels Lancolme's gasp.

"Fall back!" Jean orders. He helps Lancolme to his knees, thankful as hell that he's still wearing the prosthetic leg.

"Damn it. Can't feel the knee," Lancolme gasps. 

"Keep going," Jean says. "Ignore the numbness and keep going."

"Get to the wine cellar," Lancolme says. "Tell Stark."

It's too late for that, though, because Stark's armor is streaking from somewhere to encase him, and he's already returning fire with his gauntlets. Jean glimpses several black-clad figures beyond him just before Stark takes them out. His helmet encases his head, and Stark's gone in a blast of white light.

Jean turns to follow Lancolme, who's moving more surely than he had been. "Stark took off as Iron Man," Jean says. "I think he got the first wave, though."

"Through here," Lancolme says. He yanks at a door, but debris holds it closed.

"Let me," Jean says. He sweeps an arm across the floor, clearing plaster, wood and glass away, and yanks the door open. He grabs Lancolme under the arm and pulls him through the door, steadying him on the other side while he pushes the door closed. "Steel-reinforced?"

"My grandfather was impressed by the efforts of the French Resistance," Lancolme says.

"Smart man. Is this the full extent of his modifications?"

Lancolme shakes his head. "It's booby-trapped, of course. Designed to be defensible by one person against anyone who gets through the traps. I have a stockpile of weapons."

"Any anti-personnel munitions?"

Lancolme nods. "Come. Let me show you."

Jean helps Lancolme down the stairs. "Where do you set up?"

"There," Lancolme says. Now that they're on level ground again, he straightens. "I'm fine, Jean, thank you. Fortifications there, weapons stash behind it," he points to a section of wall. "It swings out. Pull that light cord when I tell you."

Jean waits as Lancolme punches a code into a panel on the wall, then tugs the cord. The wall pivots, and hallelujah, it's concrete backed by reinforced steel, with room for three or four defenders to shield behind it. He smiles. "This is pretty comprehensive for a post-World War II bunker," he says.

"I modified it a bit when I returned from Afghanistan." Lancolme grins. "Come. You haven't seen the best part of it." He goes behind the barrier, flips another switch, and a bank of missile launchers flips down as a targeting system powers up beside it.

"Lancolme Dernier," Jean says. "I think you're my favorite person in the world right now. Is that patched into a satellite?"

"Mmm," Lancolme agrees. "Don't tell anyone."

"I won't," Jean says. He crosses to the weapons rack. "This is great," he says. He sees Famas assault rifles and several FN P90s; an array of Glocks; ankle, thigh and shoulder holsters, and, yes. The nicest collection of Stark collapsible guns and attachments he's seen outside of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s armory.

S.H.I.E.L.D. 

What?

"Jean?"

"What is 'S.H.I.E.L.D.?'" It's important, something from his past and his head is starting to hurt again. He fights it. He can't give in to the pain, can't be distracted.

"You used to work for them," Lancolme says after a pause. "They were a force for good, but Hydra infiltrated them. You brought them down two years ago."

"Who am I?" Jean asks. He doesn't want to know, not really, but it's time. He needs to know.

"A man," Lancolme says, his voice gentle. "One who believes in protecting the innocent. Your name doesn't matter, your past doesn't matter. You are a _good man_ , Jean. That's what matters."

After a moment, Jean nods, a quick jerk of his head. Whether Lancolme is right or not about whether Jean's name and past matter, the conviction in his voice is reassuring, and his words make sense. The pain recedes. 

He can't let his focus wander. He'll deal with who he once was when they're somewhere safe. "What's the plan?"

"The stairs are a kill-zone," Lancolme says. "This room is lined with reinforced concrete. The swinging wall fortification is counterbalanced, so we can easily move it as needed if we need to retreat or change positions. Behind it is a tunnel that leads out to the sea. We can seal this end with the fortification if our position is compromised. There's a water-tight, camouflaged hatch at the other end that opens onto the end of the Saint-Luc pier. We moor _L'Ange_ next to it."

"If they come down through the reinforced ceiling?"

"It's the weakest point," Lancolme admits. "We could barricade ourselves into the tunnel now, and leave the automatic defenses to cover our retreat. However, I believe the first place they will look for us if they don't immediately find us down here is at the pier."

"Right. Let them think we're battened down here, draw them to this location and away from the village." Jean approves. "Is the whole house rigged?"

Lancolme shakes his head. "I only planned for ground troops, perhaps an armored carrier. The escape route was most important, and the ability to launch a long-range attack on the watchtower. My priority was to save as many villagers as I could, if we had to escape."

"I'm impressed," Jean says. "I'd hate to see Peggy destroyed, frankly. So the plan is that we evacuate the village, and contact Stark to bring his ship in to take everyone somewhere safe," Jean says.

"M. Stark put his contact information in my phone." Lancolme holds it up. "Shall we call him?"

"I'll gear up while you contact him," Jean says, and grabs a tactical vest. He throws it to Lancolme. "Suit up."

Lancolme grins and shrugs into the vest, then calls Stark while Jean straps on shoulder, back, thigh and ankle holsters and loads them with guns and clips. There's a nice selection of grenades, too. Jean approves. He straps a couple of knives behind his back for good measure and loops a Famas over his shoulder. He screws a laser sight onto a Stark PP09 and chambers a round. "Ready. I'll cover while you gear up."

"Stark will meet us at the boat," Lancolme says as he puts his phone into his shirt pocket. He straps a magazine pouch around his waist. "I've left the line open. We can use it like a comm channel." He selects an FN P90 and starts filling his pouch with magazines for it, when the door at the top of the stairs blows open.

After that, it's explosions and exchanges of fire and instinct. Part of Jean marvels at how easy it is, how natural his actions feel, though he's missing something, some long-range weapon that isn't a gun or a grenade, one that his body positions itself for but can't use. Lancolme proves to be as deadly with his weapon as he's skilled at driving. The bodies of Hydra soldiers clog the stairway within minutes. 

Stark's voice comes over the phone. "Shit. I've got two Hydra ships and three Hydra fighter jets coming in fast. They're armed to the teeth."

"Give me the coordinates of the ships," Lancolme says, tapping out on Jean's shoulder. Jean moves to cover both his and Lancolme's positions while Lancolme crosses to the missile launcher.

"What good's that going to do you?" Stark demands. Jean hears the staccato impacts of automatic fire on Stark's armor, then an explosion.

"Just take care of the jets, Stark," Jean shouts. "We'll get the others."

"This I've gotta see," Stark says, but he rattles off a series of coordinates that Lancolme types into the targeting system. Jean hears a crash of metal against metal. "One bird down and oops, it took out a second. Damn, I'm good."

Lancolme peers at the display. "What speed and direction?"

"Going west, at about 30 knots," Stark says.

"You may want to vacate the vicinity," Lancolme says.

"Roger that. One more jet, then I want to check the watchtower complex again. I was strafing that when FRIDAY noticed the incoming vessels."

Then Jean hears a high-pitch beeping noise above them. They've set an explosive charge in the kitchen. They're going to blast in from above. "Time to go," he says.

"A moment," Lancolme murmurs. He continues to type.

"We don't have it," Jean says. He grabs Lancolme's arm, but Lancolme jerks away.

"Almost," he says. On the display, a ghostly infrared image appears and steadies as Lancolme acquires visual. A target site appears over the image and zooms in until Jean sees that it's locked on a fast-moving ship cutting through the dark waters of the ocean. Lancolme presses a lever and one of the missiles roars into life and disappears through the ceiling.

Right where the beeping sound had been.

"Damn!" Jean says. He grabs Lancolme and pushes him toward the tunnel while dragging the counterbalanced bunker behind him. "Stark, they're coming in from the top--"

An explosion of heat, fire and shrapnel blasts Jean back, but he manages to pull the bunker closed behind him. He hears debris impact the bunker and the scream of metal and stone, smells cordite and smoke, feels heat so intense he can't breathe, like all of the air is on fire.

"Canton!" he hears Stark shout.

"The missiles," Lancolme coughs. "We have to retreat further before they explode on the launch pad."

"Hang on," Jean says, struggling to his feet and pulling Lancolme up with him.

"Get out of there, now!" Stark shouts, sounding frantic. "FRIDAY says it's about to blow!"

"Sorry," Jean says to Lancolme, then puts him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and starts running. He only gets about 100 meters before the ground shakes and he's thrown off his feet. He curls around Lancolme and holds his breath, his ears ringing and his skin burning. Instinctively he throws his hand up and feels it shimmer into a burning shield that he places between them and the explosions rocking the tunnel.

The shield ...It holds the explosion back. It takes all of his concentration to hold, but somehow the fire that comes from his body devours the fire pouring at them through the narrow channel of earth.

"STEVE!" Stark shouts.

The tunnel stops shaking, and Jean collapses, the fire from his hand vanishing.

"We're okay, Tony," he hears Lancolme say from very far away. "Just winded and bruised."

"Thank Christ," Stark says, but Jean's ears are ringing so he loses the rest of Iron Man's words. It doesn't matter anyway, because all he wants to do is sleep. Damn, he's tired.

He drifts until he feels Lancolme shake him. "Jean. Jean, we need to keep moving."

"Right," he mumbles, pushing up to his knees.

"Tony says the missile I launched took out one of the ships," Lancolme says, steadying him. "He's lost the other one, though. He's going to try to dismantle the rest of the Hydra troops on the island, then meet us at the pier." 

He helps Jean to his feet, then starts guiding him along the tunnel. When they'd raced in, Jean remembers there had been lights, but the tunnel is in complete darkness, now.

"Wait," he murmurs, and holds up his hand. It begins to glow, until he can see Lancolme's face and a few feet of tunnel beyond.

Lancolme's eyes are wide, but his voice is steady. "Tony, we're on our way to the harbor."

"Gotcha," Stark says. "Christ. Don't give me another heart attack like that, okay? The third jet's down and the watchtower complex is toast. Aviation fuel is so burny."

"Thank you," Lancolme says. While he's replying to Stark, he's smiling at Jean.

Stark says, "I'll swing back to the island and start herding villagers toward the boats."

"Copy," Lancolme says, his voice calm but the smile fading. The expression on his face breaks Jean's heart. 

"I'm sorry about your home," he says.

Lancolme nods, and glances back the way they came.

He needs to distract Lancolme. They can mourn Peggy's destruction later. "Can you run or should I carry you?" Jean asks Lancolme.

Lancolme blinks a few times and then glares at him. "You were the one who fainted."

"I didn't faint," Jean protests. "I was just catching my breath." Distraction successful. "Come on, I can put you over my shoulder again."

"Try it and I'll punch you in the nose." Lancolme stalks down the tunnel toward the harbor. "Keep up, M. le Flashlight."

He and Lancolme keep walking, Jean content to let Lancolme take point while he concentrates on maintaining their light. He doubts anyone could have survived the blast that destroyed the house, so they're probably not being followed. The tunnel runs downhill, a steeply sloping ramp with no steps, long curves and a smooth floor. Lancolme's moving easily on his new leg, when not an hour earlier, he'd been hesitant to trust his balance with it. Jean couldn't be happier for him. If Stark is able to help Lancolme regain some sensation in it, well, he'll owe Stark an apology. 

Not that Stark will ever know he deserved one, of course.

Jean can smell the ocean now, a briny sulfur scent mingled with the earth around them. The tunnel floor is damp, and puddles become more numerous.

When he can hear the muted roar of waves, Lancolme slows and stops, holding up his hand to stop Jean.

"We're nearly there," Lancolme whispers. "Stark?"

"Shit," Stark says. "Okay, we have a problem. Hydra's running around like they've had their heads cut off--pun totally intentional--but the ship I called for is too far out. It's not going to get here in time. Damn it, Coulson, get your ass in gear, we've got civilians to save!" he shouts at someone.

"Is there any other way we can evacuate the village?" Jean asks.

"The fishing boats," Lancolme says. "But they're not built for speed."

"We'll have to risk it," Jean says. "Maybe we can get far enough away before Hydra regroups. Stark, can you get everyone down to the beach?"

"Roger, Rog--" Stark bites off what he was going to say. "Yeah, okay, I can do that. Coulson," he says, and Jean presumes he's talking to the captain of his ship, "we're coming to meet you as soon as we can load the boats. Be prepared to transfer a bunch of kids and old people. Um, under twelve and over sixty? Yeah, that's what I said, kids and old people. Unlike you, I'll take clarity. Correctness can piss off."

Jean groans. Stark is such an ass.

"Right," Lancolme says. He shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Let's get the boats, shall we?"

~oOo~

Jean and Lancolme emerge from the tunnel in time to witness a tense confrontation.

The villagers are huddled in a small group on the beach, carrying lanterns. Some of them are staring at the eastern horizon, where the fires that have destroyed Peggy glow further up the mountain. But most of them are watching Iron Man and Father René, tense and fearful, gazes darting from one man to the other. The children are silent, each pressed close to an adult.

"Look, Father, if you want to stay behind and get killed by Hydra, be my guest," Iron Man's saying. "But I'm taking the rest of these people to safety."

Father René stands in front of the villagers, glaring at Iron Man. "We aren't asking for your help. Go away."

A child starts crying, and the people behind him murmur.

"M. Dernier's home is on fire."

"What were all of the explosions?"

"Is it a war?"

"It's Iron Man. He saves people."

Lancolme looks grim. "Wait here," he says, and walks over to Iron Man.

"Father René," he says. "A terrorist group known as Hydra attacked and destroyed my home tonight. Iron Man has fought them back for the moment, but more will be here soon. I believe everyone in this village will be in danger if we don't evacuate before they arrive."

Father René turns his furious gaze on Lancolme, hesitating a bit when he sees that Lancolme is walking without crutches. His eyes narrow. "God will protect us," he says. 

"He'll protect you better if you're not here when Hydra arrives," Iron Man says. 

"We must leave," Lancolme says. "I cannot force you to come with us, but I will not leave anyone else behind."

People start to drift toward Lancolme, though the glances they throw at Father René are full of dread.

"I'll come with you," Lavril says, a calm presence. "The children must be kept safe." 

There's a whisper of relief from several people, and when she heads toward the boats, all but a handful follow her.

"There's not room on _L'Ange_ ," Jean says. "We'll need the other boats. _L'Ange_ can provide cover, if we need it." There's another Hydra ship out there, somewhere. But the ocean is vast, so with luck and vigilance, they should be able to slip by her to safety. 

"I can take people on my boat," Zobel says.

"We will take people as well," Patrick says, gesturing to Luc. "Three boats should carry everyone."

"I'll leave you to help everyone aboard," Jean says, clapping Zobel on the shoulder. As the fishermen head to the boats, Jean turns back to the confrontation between Lancolme, Father René and Iron Man. He feels a tug on his shirt, and turns to find Jojo looking up at him, eyes wide and fearful.

"Will we be all right?" Jojo whispers.

Jean kneels to look her in the eyes. "We'll keep you safe," he says, smiling at her. "I promise."

"But what if the bad guys come?"

"Iron Man will help," Jean says. "He's a hero, you know."

Some of the tension in the child's body drains away, and she smiles back at Jean. "Can I meet him?"

"I don't know," Jean says. "But maybe, if there's time and everyone's safe."

"Okay," she says, her smile broadening.

"I'll take her," Lavril says from behind Jean. He looks up to see her hold her hand out to Jojo. "Come, child."

"Thank you," Jean says. "We'll leave as soon as everyone is on board."

Jojo nods and takes Lavril's hand.

When Jean stands and turns back to Lancolme, he sees the confrontation has passed. Father René still looks angry, but he's now leading the villagers that had remained behind toward the fishing boats, where the rest of the adults are boarding. Iron Man flies into the air and disappears, while Lancolme is walking back to Jean.

"I see you persuaded them," Jean says as Lancolme reaches his side. They turn to walk to _L'Ange._

"I think it was more a matter that he wants to keep an eye on everyone," Lancolme murmurs. "I don't trust him."

"I don't, either. We should tell Tony--"

"--That some of these assholes are Hydra?" Tony's voice says from Lancolme's pocket. "Yeah, I figured. I've jammed cell phone and ship to ship communications, so if we've got spies in the bunch, at least they shouldn't be able to tell anyone where we are. I'll stop by each boat and give them a locked-down comm unit with one secure channel, so we can coordinate the boats once we're out on the water without allowing any Hydra spies to contact their buddies that way, either. Coulson is going to keep all of the villagers segregated once they're aboard the _Lemurian Star_. And thanks for finally remembering my name, by the way. Took you long enough."

"Shut up," Jean says mildly, frowning. _Lemurian Star._ Why does that sound familiar? "How do things look from on high?"

"All clear for now." 

Hydra is nowhere in evidence as Jean and Lancolme help everyone in the village onto one of the boats. Jean rigs up flotation devices for the children and passes them to Lavril, but they're makeshift at best. He prays that Hydra doesn't attack them at sea.

"You have the ship's coordinates?" Lancolme asks Christophe, who is overseeing the loading of the last adults.

"Yes, don't worry, Lancolme. We'll be right behind you," Christophe says. He takes Martina's hand. "We'll pray for you."

"Do you think we'll be able to return?" Martina asks.

"My family is from here, as is yours," Lancolme says. "This is where our hearts lie. I plan to return, and to rebuild."

"You're still a young man," Martina says. "Even if we are young in heart, our bodies are old. Rebuilding is a young person's option."

"Not if you have help," Lancolme says. "I'll help you."

"I'll help, too," Jean volunteers.

"By the way," Christophe says, and pulls something out of his shirt. "I brought your sketchbook."

Jean had forgotten he'd left it with Christophe. He takes it from him, thankful Christophe thought to bring it with him. There's a few sketches of Peggy in it; perhaps Lancolme would like them. It won't make up for losing his home, but it might help him keep his memories of her. He stuffs it down the front of his shirt, wedging it into his waistband. He needs his hands free. "Thank you."

Iron Man swoops down and hovers. "Tearful goodbyes finished? Because we need to get going. I'll do the air cover thing until we reach Coulson's ship."

Lancolme glances around, meets everyone's eyes. He nods. "Everyone's accounted for. Let's go." He turns to board _L'Ange_ , and hesitates.

It's the new leg, Jean realizes. "Do you have your crutches?"

Lancolme shakes his head. "They were at the house."

Walking with a new artificial leg on land is one thing, but on a boat it's likely to be nearly impossible. "I'll spot you if you slip," Jean says, stepping into the boat, Lancolme just a half-step behind. He stumbles and slips on the deck, but Jean catches him.

"I'll have to practice," Lancolme says. "It was tricky with crutches, but right now, I wouldn't mind having a pair."

"You drive," Jean says, helping him to the wheelhouse. "I'll watch for the other boats."

"Right." Lancolme eases into the captain's chair. "Yes. Better now." He turns on the ignition and maneuvers _L'Ange_ out of the harbor. Once they've reached the sea, he opens up the throttle.

Jean looks back to see the others follow. A glint catches his eye and he looks up to see Iron Man hovering above them, scanning for enemies.

"Still all clear," Stark calls, his voice amplified to be heard by the boats over the roar of their engines. "I can see Coulson's lights. He's maybe thirty-five, forty miles out."

"We should be there within two or three hours," Lancolme shouts. "Please tell the others to run without lights. We need the darkness to work in our favor." 

Iron Man waves and darts off.

"I'm sorry about your home," Jean says.

Lancolme shrugs. "I'll miss her," he says. "But I can rebuild."

Jean's not fooled. Lancolme's expression is blank, his pain carefully hidden. 

"I'll help," is all he says.

~oOo~

Once they're underway and Tony has distributed comm units, time seems to stretch and slow on _L'Ange_. Clouds begin to cover the sky and the wind picks up, slowing their progress. Lancolme concentrates on navigating, leaving Jean nothing to do but stand by his side and try in vain to peer ahead into the darkness. The other boats vanish, hidden by waves that keep getting higher as the storm gets closer. Jean double- and triple-checks the weapons that he and Lancolme brought with them, but he's deeply aware that their ammunition is limited. Even if they had a full hold of bullets, though, it probably wouldn't help. The weapons they've brought will be all but useless in a battle on the water.

Jean sees nothing but black water, feels nothing but the greedy clutch of the waves, breathes air thick with imminent rain. The ocean surrounds him. He knows the ocean. She can't be trusted. She's hungry, and he's afraid the waves might end up feeding her if they get any worse. It may not be much safer aboard the _Lemurian Star_ , but he can't wait until they reach Tony's friends.

There's a roar and a heavy _thunk_ behind him, and he whirls, guns raised, to see Iron Man standing on the deck with his hands held up in surrender.

"Don't shoot, big guy, it's just me." Tony's faceplate retracts. "We need to make better time."

"That's impossible," Lancolme says. "The fishing boats aren't as powerful as _L'Ange_. I don't want to leave them behind and defenseless."

"I can cover them," Tony says, impatient. "But I've got a bad feeling. I think you two should go ahead and meet Coulson without the rest of us."

"What bad feeling?" Jean asks. 

"Just … glitches," Tony says. "Like someone's playing with the frequencies I'm monitoring."

"Can they do that?" Jean demands.

"They shouldn't be able to," Tony says. "The only people with comm units are the boat captains, and those fishing boats don't have sophisticated enough equipment to crack those." He's frowning. "Did anyone in the village have extensive electronics experience? Like, military-grade?"

"Not that I know of," Lancolme says. "I'm the only one with any modern combat experience."

"Maybe it's atmospherics," Tony says, but it's plain he doesn't really believe that. "But it doesn't matter. You need to get to Coulson yesterday." He looks like he wants to say something else, but he shakes his head. "So get going. I'll hang back with the others."

"I don't want to leave them behind, either," Jean says. "Have you seen any evidence of the Hydra boat around?"

Tony shakes his head. "But that doesn't mean she's not out there, somewhere close. I don't know which boat you took out, but one of them looked like it was pretty specialized. It was shaped strange, with a normal-looking deck but loads of hatches. I didn't get a good enough look at it to make a guess what it can do, though."

"A modified submarine?" Lancolme asks.

"I don't know. Maybe," Stark replies.

"How much further is it to the _Lemurian Star_?" Lancolme asks. 

"Maybe another fifteen miles or so?"

Jean's heart drops. They've been sailing forever, it seems, but they're only a little over half-way there. And that's with the _Star_ making its way towards them, too, he realizes.

No. He can't leave the other boats behind. Not when help is so far away. "We can't leave them," he repeats. 

Lancolme nods his agreement.

Tony swears, but his faceplate activates and Jean's looking at Iron Man again. "Fine," Iron Man says. "Stubborn assholes."

Jean rolls his eyes. "Tony--" he starts to say, but pain lances through him. He can't help but cry out as he falls to his knees and clutches at his head. At the same moment, Iron Man crumbles to the deck and Lancolme swears, long and furious. 

"Jean!" Lancolme says. "Tony! What's happening?"

Iron Man struggles to his knees. "They're here," Tony says. "Fuck. That was an EMP. Shit. It shouldn't have taken out the armor, but it has. Lancolme?"

"The leg isn't working," Lancolme says. "I'll keep _L'Ange_ on course, though. I don't need the leg for that. Help Jean."

Jean can barely hear them through the pain. "Tony," he gasps. "Help the other boats."

"Can't," Tony says. "The armor's dead. It's nothing more than a coffin right now, if I fall in the water."

Jean wants to act, knows someone needs to, but the pain is overwhelming. He's lying on the deck, and the night is dark and the boat is bucking and oh, fucking Christ, who the hell is Bucky and what are the Accords and why doesn't he have the shield--

"Tony," he whispers. "Call Natasha."

"Crap," he hears Tony say, and then hands are on him, pulling him up and into an armored lap. "Bruce and Helen wanted me to wait for you to make the decision, but damn it, Rogers, we can't wait anymore. Hydra's here and you're coming back online. I'm sorry."

Jean feels a pinch at his neck, and then fire blazes through him.

He screams and erupts in flame.

He's dimly aware of Tony falling back, armored arm upraised to shield his face from the fire that's blazing from Jean's body, glimpses Lancolme's horrified face, and then the boat is moving, rising. There's a grinding noise beneath him, and then _L'Ange_ pitches to the side and he's flying off the deck and toward the ocean, and this is it, isn't it? This time the ocean will swallow him and never let him go--

He hits unyielding metal _where's the water?_ and screams again, he can't help it _Bucky!_ , and Christ it's so hot he's burning, he's the burning man and he doesn't want to die like this--

"Welcome back," he hears through the crescendo of pain overcoming him. He sees …

… _L'Ange_ , lying on her side on a black deck streaming with water as it rises out of the ocean beneath her;  
… Tony, white and gasping, on his back in the Iron Man suit and surrounded by armed Hydra agents;  
… Lancolme, eyes closed and blood streaming from a cut on his brow, dangling limp between two men in black body suits;  
… fire: his hands;   
… fire: streaming from his fingers;  
… fire: a man enveloped by Jean's flames, falling, screaming, writhing, dying;  
… nothing. 

The world goes black.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

_"This should wake him."_

Steve groans. God. He hurts. 

"Captain Rogers."

He tries to open his eyes, but it's too bright. He turns his face away from the brightness and tries to lift an arm to shield his face, but he can't move his arms.

"I want you to listen to my words."

Hydra. He'd been in Jamaica, picking up the identity papers Natasha had left him at the dead drop in Brompton. How had they known he'd be there?

"You have been chosen to serve the greater good."

Something shivers through him, and suddenly, Steve can't move.

"Don't panic," he hears, but he can't open his eyes, can barely breathe, can only wait and listen. What's happening? Why can't he move?

_A church. A sermon. A man on crutches._

What was that?

"You have proven to be a more successful subject than we could have hoped for," he hears. "Ms. Baker, dear. Explain to Captain Rogers."

"You've been conditioned, Captain Rogers," he hears a woman say. "You can't move. You'll feel a pinch in your arm, and then you'll feel like you're burning up. You must not burn. Do you understand?"

"I can't burn," Steve murmurs, and goddamn it. He hadn't wanted to respond. Conditioned. Like Bucky? He feels a shiver of fear running through him, but his body remains immobile.

There's a pinch.

And then he's on fire.

"That's right," he hears the woman say. "You're doing great. Don't burn."

Holy Christ, but it _hurts_. His heart is racing and he can't catch his breath, and he's burning up.

"We can leave him," he hears the woman say. "It will take a few hours for his body to integrate the new formula with the old one."

"Should we take him deeper into his conditioning?"

"No need," she says. "He'll keep. It's time to talk to Mr. Stark."

He hears footsteps and a door closing, and he's alone with his pain.

Can't burn.

Can't burn.

But he is, he's burning, and it's all inside. His blood has boiled dry, his body should be desiccated. It would be, he thinks, but his blood is made of flames instead of liquid, and god, it hurts so _much_.

A trickle of ice runs through his head, and suddenly he can think again. The ice flows slowly, too slowly, he wants it to spread faster except no, he doesn't want to freeze again.

Oh, god, what's happening to him?

The ice moves, and the first part of it is melting, it's like a trail of ice that leaves spring behind it, and the pain is disappearing. He can breathe again, and feels his body gasp eagerly for air. He still can't move, but the fire is slowly being quenched.

He hears the door open, and a man whispers, "Jean?"

"Who's Jean?" Steve manages to ask.

The man approaches him, and he feels a cool hand on his forehead. "It's working," the man says in French, then answers Steve's question. "You were, but it doesn't sound like you are any more. Do you know who you are?"

"Steve. Rogers."

The man takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Yes," he says. "Steve. I'm here to get you out. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Steve's body is almost cool now, the fire receded to some point inside where it seems to be trapped. He opens his eyes to see a dark face close to his. The man is familiar. He feels … safe.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Lancolme Dernier," the man says. "We're on a Hydra ship. We were taken prisoner, along with Tony Stark. They left me in a room in the hold, but Tony slipped me a device so that I could escape. We don't have much time."

"Conditioned," Steve manages to say.

"I was afraid of that. I'm sorry, my friend, but I'll need to issue commands to you." Steve feels movement along his body and suddenly his body feels less restricted. "I've removed your bindings. Can you sit up?"

Steve groans again, but he forces himself to sit up and swing his legs off the table he'd been strapped to. "Cancel command?" he asks.

"Merde," Dernier says, then adds, "Of course. Disregard all commands."

Something shifts in his mind, and Steve can finally move. He feels weak as a kitten, though. He eases off the table and holds on to it while he waits for his body to adjust to standing. "You said Tony Stark is a prisoner, too?"

"Yes. They took him somewhere, but I don't know where. He said you were the priority. We need to get to the communications room and send a message to Agent Coulson." Dernier walks to the door, dragging one leg.

"Agent? Isn't Coulson the director?" Steve asks, but he follows Dernier to the door. He can feel his strength slowly returning. Good. He's going to need it if he's on a ship filled with Hydra personnel.

"I don't know," Dernier says, and motions for him to follow. "We must be silent."

"Your leg," Steve whispers. "Are you injured?"

Dernier ignores him. "The communications room is three levels up and in the bow of the ship. I made my way here through the ductwork, but I doubt your body will fit. Although I don't want to separate, it may be more expedient if we each make our own way there. That way, if one of us is discovered, the other might still have a chance."

"I need to find Stark."

"After we have contacted Agent Coulson," Dernier says. "Tony was most insistent."

Damn it. It makes sense, but Steve doesn't like it. "Does he have his armor?"

"It was deactivated," Dernier says. "Please, my friend. I wish I could take the time to answer all of your questions, but we must act quickly. Once they discover that you and I are gone, the ship will be locked down. It won't take them long to recapture us."

"Not without a fight," Steve says.

"Only if you can overcome the conditioning," Dernier pauses, thinking. "Perhaps … You are no longer conditioned," he says firmly.

"Will that work?" Steve asks. He doesn't feel any different.

Dernier shrugs. "It can't hurt, at least. Come. We must go."

They slip into the hallway, taking advantage of the shadows and using doorways as cover. They reach a vent with its cover off, and Lancolme drops to the floor. 

"Good luck," he whispers, and slides inside.

"See you soon," Steve replies, and eases the grate back into place. With luck, even if they find that Dernier has escaped, no one will figure out that he's in the ductwork.

Dernier. Is he a relative of Jacques? He obviously has some African heritage, but at least a couple of generations have passed, so it isn't inconceivable that he's related in some way. In fact, he might be about the right age to have been Jacques' grandson, perhaps, if Jacques and his son had each become fathers later in life.

No time for that now, though. He needs to concentrate.

Steve continues toward the area of the ship where Dernier said the communications room was located. He meets a Hydra agent, but it's the work of a moment to snap his neck and take his weapons. He hides the body behind a bulkhead and continues toward his goal.

About five minutes after he separates from Dernier, alarms go off throughout the ship. Steve ducks into a darkened room as several Hydra agents run past his hiding place. It's going to get trickier from here, but as much as he wants to, he knows he can't just fight his way to the communications room. Not only would it give away his objective, but he may still be susceptible to commands.

"Captain Rogers," a voice says over the ship's intercom. "Please turn yourself in. If you do not, I'm afraid Mr. Stark may meet with an unfortunate accident. I doubt he needs his legs to tell us his secrets."

Steve closes his eyes and curses silently to himself. Right. Time to take stock.

He looks around, and finds that he's in, of all places, an armory. 

An armory _with a ship schematic on the fucking wall._

Hydra. What idiots. Yeah, he can see that it's a great way for agents to weapon up and make on-the-fly strategic plans. But, honestly. Arrogance doesn't begin to describe their overall idiocy. Did they think that no one else would ever enter this room? This _unlocked_ room?

He loads up on weapons and makes some on-the-fly strategic plans. Ten minutes and a plan in place later, he allows himself to be captured.

~oOo~

Tony … looks awful.

He's bound to a chair, stripped down to his trousers, one eye swollen closed and blood on his mouth. His chest is bare, and Steve is shocked to see an arc reactor embedded there. Hadn't Tony had that removed?

"Tony," Steve says. He turns to the guards who escorted him to the room. "He needs medical attention."

"Which he'll receive if you cooperate with us, Captain Rogers," someone says in French.

Steve turns back in time to see an older white man step from the shadows. He's dressed as a priest, but his eyes are a cold ice-blue that makes something inside of Steve tense. He looks familiar, but Steve can't place him.

It doesn't matter. He's Hydra. 

"Cooperate," Steve says, tone flat. "Do you think Stark wants that? We're all expendable."

"You shall have no Gods before me," the man says, and Steve--

\--loses himself.

_Rogers._

Light floods the room. Past the bound man in the chair, there's a surgical table and instruments. The table has iron shackles welded to it: arms, chest, legs, ankles. He doesn't want to look at it, but he can't look away.

"Please lie down on the table."

_Hold on. Don't listen to him._

Steve walks to the table and lies down on it. He doesn't move as they shackle him.

"Rogers," he hears. He turns his head toward the man bound to the chair, and meets his gaze. The man looks terrified. "Rogers. Fight it!"

_I'm trying, Tony._

"Please silence Mr. Stark," the priest says. 

The bound man glares, and one of the soldiers backhands him. The man slumps and the soldier picks cloth _Tony's shirt, AC/DC's_ "Lock Up Your Daughters" _tour_ from the floor and rips it. He stuffs a section of it into the bound man's mouth.

"Thank you," the priest says. "Now, Captain Rogers," he continues, turning back to Steve. "I admit, you've surprised me. I thought our treatment earlier would have incapacitated you far longer. I'm pleased by your resiliency, though. It means we can continue the treatments at a faster pace. Ms. Baker, dear. Do you have another dose ready?"

"Yes, Father." An older woman with a long, white braid approaches Steve. She has a needle.

_No._

Steve can't move.

_NO._

The woman places a hand on his shoulder, brings the needle close.

"No!" Steve whispers, fierce and angry, and it's not enough but it's something, damn it, he's not going down without a fight--

\--the room plunges into darkness, except for the bright glow from Tony's chest.

Surprised exclamations, demands for light, the hand on his shoulder falling away, and Steve has to use this opportunity, can't let it slip away, god damn it, _can't_ , so he makes a fist and pulls up on his left shackle. It's so hard to move that the snap of the lock breaking seems easy in comparison, though he can feel blood trickling down his wrist.

Gunshots ring out, clear, deliberate reports that remind Steve of Bucky in the old days. A flurry of gunfire greets the shots, but one by one the guns are silenced. 

Steve makes a fist with his right hand and pulls. The second lock breaks.

"Cancel conditioning," a man whispers from close by, and Steve can move again. He quickly snaps the remaining locks and slips off the table.

"Dernier?" he whispers.

"Get Tony," Dernier says, voice low. A shielded flashlight beam appears, and Steve can see him. He's wearing night goggles, and keeps the beam angled away from him. "I have a boat ready to launch," Dernier adds, "but I can't help him and cover our retreat at the same time."

"Right," Steve says. They cross to Stark, where Steve snaps Stark's bindings and takes out his gag. He puts a hand on Tony's shoulder and shakes him. "Tony."

"Ready," Tony mumbles, and attempts to rise. He doesn't make it.

"Put your arm around my shoulder," Steve says.

"You're a goddamned mountain, Rogers," Tony enunciates clearly in English. "I can't fucking reach."

Dernier laughs softly. "Tony, let Steve carry you. We have little time."

"Fuck no!" Tony says, still in English, but Steve ignores him and lifts him out of the chair.

"No bridal carries," Stark mutters.

"Then pretend you're draped over my shoulder," Steve says in French, because apparently, Tony can't argue in another language at the moment, and Steve will take any advantage he can find. He catches a glimpse of Tony's face in the light, and Stark's glare is gloriously angry. Steve grins. "Suck it up, Stark."

Dernier leads them through a maze of narrow hallways and up echoing metal stairs, pulling them into doorways as needed to let Hydra soldiers run past them. He slips through a bulkhead and closes it behind them.

"This ship is submersible," he says. "We've been running underwater, but I discovered this launch bay earlier. There are small submersible craft here. I think they were designed to be launched when the ship is on the surface, but we'll have to take a chance. The problem is, once we launch, we may be easy targets."

"How deep are we?" Tony asks. He seems more alert. Good.

"I don't know," Dernier admits.

"Right. Need a clear head. Put me down, Rogers. I'm fine." Steve lowers him, pleased to see that Tony is able to stand on his own.

"So, we don't know what kinds of pressure these boats can stand," Tony says. "My guess is that they're meant for near-surface tactics, not deep sea maneuvers."

A shiver runs through Steve. He doesn't like where this is going.

"Our only other choice is to try to find somewhere to hide on this ship until we can contact your friend's ship," Dernier says.

Steve wants to say, 'let's take that chance,' but he knows they can't. Something's keeping the Extremis from taking over his system, but he's not sure how long it will hold. If he's taken by Hydra again …

"You're right. We need to get off the ship," Tony concedes. "But we can't have them come after us." He looks around. "Okay, the launch bays are self-contained. But if we open them up, then open the hatch we just came through, we might be able to sink the ship. Two birds, one stone."

Sink. Into the depths of the ocean, into the cold, black water and ice below them …

"No," Steve whispers.

Lancolme and Tony ignore him. "We have to take the risk," Lancolme says.

"I can't," Jean whispers.

"I'll see if I can get a depth reading from a capsule's console," Tony says.

"We can't," Jean says, voice hoarse. "The ocean-- We'll die."

"Rogers?" Tony says.

"Jean?" Lancolme says.

Steve blinks. He's … not-Jean. Steve? It's like his memories are layered over each other, and he can't quite wrap his head around them. He's only certain about one thing. "I can't," he says, running his hand through his hair. "I can't go into the water. Not underneath."

"What the fuck?" Stark says, but Lancolme interrupts.

"Jean is afraid of the ocean," he says, watching Steve. "Terrified, although he hides it well."

Stark's face changes, looks shocked and understanding at the same time. He looks … guilty. "He's not exactly hiding it now," he points out. 

"He's not exactly himself at the moment, either," Lancolme says.

Lancolme. Steve can't believe that he didn't recognize him earlier. Hydra took away his memories as Steve Rogers, and then had taken his memories of Jean Canton. He'd nearly lost memories of a dear friend. "Why am I remembering?"

"I gave you an antidote to the Extremis when we were caught," Tony says. "And the EMP took out the neural blocker that was shielding your old memories. Rogers, we've got to get off this ship. You want me to, I don't know, knock you out or something?"

"Tony!" Lancolme says.

"No!" Steve says. God, no. The thought of falling unconscious and going into the water makes his heart pound in his chest.

"We've got to get going," Stark says. "Cap, put on your big boy pants."

"Tony!" Lancolme repeats.

Steve glares at Tony. "You're an asshole, Stark."

"There's the Steve Rogers I know and love," Tony says. "Okay, I'm not at my best but it looks like that's still better than the alternative, by which I mean the two of you. Most of these look single-manned. Is there one that's big enough for all three of us, fully stocked with oxygen and fuel? Maybe capable of traveling on the surface?" He looks at Steve and Lancolme, then makes 'hurry up' motions. "Rogers, you think maybe you could check?"

Maybe it's having something to do, but Steve's terror recedes a bit, and he quickly examines the vessels. "This one is big enough," he says, pointing to the furthest submersible. "Looks like it can hold four crew."

"Check to make sure it's good to go," Tony says. "Dernier, do you have any experience with subs?"

Dernier shakes his head. "I was stationed in the desert."

"Well, that's just dandy," Stark mutters. He's yanking the cover off the control panel on the wall and pulling wires. "Just use your common sense, then. Help Rogers."

"What will you be doing?" Steve snaps. Damn Stark. He's such a complete ass.

"I'm rigging this place to flood," Stark says. "When we launch, I want to leave a goddamned huge breach behind us."

Steve freezes. He can't help it. Stark is talking about deliberately opening the ship to the ocean, deliberately allowing the black water to flood in.

"Steve?" Dernier asks. 

They'll all be sucked down, into the depths …

"Jean," Lancolme says. He puts a gentle hand on Jean's shoulder. "We'll be fine. There's nothing to fear."

But Lancolme doesn't know the blackness like Jean does.

"Goddamn it, wake up!" Tony says. "You are Steven Goddamned Rogers! You've fought aliens and robots and even _me_ for fuck's sake, and you won every time! Get your head together! It's just a fucking _boat_!"

"Tony," Steve says.

"Yes, I'm Tony, you're Steve, and Lancolme is your buddy's grandson! Now Captain America the hell out of your psyche and get the goddamned boat ready to launch!"

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Stark."

Steve, Lancolme and Tony whirl toward the door. A phalanx of soldiers pours through it, breaking on either side of the priest and the woman with the white braid and aiming their guns at Tony, who's closest to them. 

Father René. And Lorrie Baker.

Steve swallows down his panic. He can't let Tony die. He can't let Lancolme die. Even if it means that the ocean takes him for good, this time. He inches his hand closer to the launch handle, but for the life of him, he can't see a way out for any of them. As long as the Hydra agents keep the bulkhead to the launch chamber open, if he pulls this lever and somehow jams the outer hatch open, the ship and everyone aboard will sink to the bottom of the ocean.

Then he remembers the plan he put into place. Maybe, if he times it right, it will still work. Maybe he can save one of them, at least. Maybe all three of them. "Lancolme," he breathes, lips not moving. "Get ready to get into the submersible when I open the inner hatch." He slips his free hand into his pocket.

Lancolme squeezes his shoulder. Good. Now for Tony.

"Please step away from the launch pod, Mr. Rogers," Father René says.

"How did you catch me?" Steve asks, ignoring the order. "The first time?"

"You shall have no god before me," Father René answers.

And he's freezing again, he can't freeze, and the pain in his head returns threefold, and Lancolme is whispering, "Jean. Steve. Disregard any orders. You're free," and it gives Steve enough, just enough, to stop the darkness from overtaking him. He feels like his head will explode, but he grits his teeth and tightens his hold on the inner hatch lever.

"Shoot Dernier," Father René says. "But don't hit Mr. Rogers, please."

"No!" Tony shouts, diving toward Steve and Lancolme, but a bullet catches him in the shoulder and he stumbles. Still, Steve can see him using his forward momentum to cover as much ground as he can before he finally falls, groaning and holding the wound.

Another shot rings out. Steve hears Lancolme gasp, just a tiny one, and then Lancolme is dead weight against Steve's shoulder and he's falling, his body brushing against Steve's as he drops, and Steve can't look at him, because he knows what he'll see.

"NO!" Tony shouts. "Goddamn you! Bastards!" He scrambles forward a few more feet, but a bullet hits the floor in front of him and he stops again.

Lancolme. Steve was right next to him, but he couldn't save him. 

Lancolme. 

Oh God. 

Lancolme. 

Steve looks at Tony, who's looking back at him, his expression echoing Steve's pain, but grim and determined, too.

"Not your fault," Tony says. "Hold it together."

Steve presses the detonator in his pocket and lunges for Tony.

The ship shudders, the first explosion followed by multiple smaller ones as the bomb Steve had rigged in the armory triggers the rest of the explosives stored there. He has Tony's arm, he's dragging him back to the launch tube, he's pulling the lever and shoving Tony toward the submersible's hatch, he's turning to Lancolme and bending down to pick him up, bring him along with them, but Tony has his arm, is pulling him, is saying, "Don't screw his sacrifice over, get in here," and Tony has dragged him through the hatch and is closing it behind them.

The submersible is shivering in its launch tube, the ship still reeling under more explosions. Steve hears the ping of bullets on its hull and Tony cursing as he slips into the navigator's seat. Even one-handed, his left arm crooked against his chest, Tony's fingers fly across the controls. The panel lights up.

"Hold on," Tony says. A monitor flicks on, and on it Steve can see the hold they've just left, Hydra soldiers running toward their submersible, still firing at them, Father René and the dark-haired woman shouting, though he can't hear what they're saying. Tony curses and uses both hands now, pressing buttons as fast as he can.

"Steve, lock the hatch," he says, then, "Steve! Goddamn it, lock the hatch!"

Steve grips the hatch wheel and turns it, hears the bolts slide into place.

"Hang on," Tony says.

Steve hears a whine and feels a small bump, sees the Hydra soldiers panic, try to pull the inner hatch closed, but Lancolme's body is in the way. He looks away, swallows hard, stares unseeingly through the clear acrylic dome of the submersible at the outer hatch.

Which suddenly isn't there, anymore.

And then the ocean rushes in and everything goes dark.

~oOo~

Steve wakes to Tony shaking him.

"Oh thank God," Tony says. "I thought they'd brain-fried you or something."

"Tony?"

"Yeah," Tony says. "I'm here. We're both okay. Just, uh. Just don't panic, okay?"

"Panic?" Steve echoes, then he looks past Tony's shoulder.

They're underwater. 

"Christ," Steve whispers, and begins to shake.

"Let's do the breathing thing again," Tony says. "Close your eyes, three deep breaths, with me."

Steve closes his eyes, breathes deep, mirroring Tony. 

"Good," Tony says. "Keep your eyes closed if you need to, nothing to see, anyway. Just keep breathing." He sits quietly for a moment, but because he's Tony, the quiet doesn't last long. "I don't get it. You broke into the fucking Raft. Where was your phobia then?"

"I don't know," Steve replies, frustrated. "I'm not a damned psychologist, Tony." His heart speeds up.

"Keep breathing, we're fine," Tony says. "Last thing I need is for you to panic and do a Hulk in here or something."

"You're an asshole," Steve tells him, but his heart rate slows again. "Where are we?"

"Our GPS is out," Tony says. "I might have bumped into the Hydra ship a little bit when we launched."

Christ, he'd forgotten. "The ship--"

"--is gone," Tony assures him. "I watched her go down."

Is it better to keep his eyes closed and imagine Lancolme's death over and over, or to open his eyes and see the ocean all around?

"He was a hero," Tony says, seeming to read his mind. "I … the same thing happened to me before. When the terrorists took me. His name was Yinsen."

Yinsen. As in the Yinsen Youth Science Scholarship that Steve's read about on his 'Stark' newsfeed. "Lancolme was more than a friend," Steve says. "He gave me a home. He made me family."

"Yeah," Tony says. "I won't forget him, either. I promise."

They fall silent. But the silence is oppressive, it lets Steve's imagination run free. He can feel the fear building again. He needs Tony to talk. "Were you able to contact your friends? Have you heard what happened to the villagers?"

"The radio works," Tony says. "I reached Coulson. He said two of the boats reached the _Lemurian Star._ "

"And the third boat?"

"The last boat rendezvoused with the Hydra ship, because that asshole priest was on it," Tony says. "And a few other Hydra jerks, too. While you were out, I took a look at your artwork and saw a few faces I recognized."

"Tell me." Keep talking, Tony. Please.

"There was a guy there, old guy--they were all old, what am I saying?--um, a guy you drew at the garage? He used to work for my dad, pretty brilliant electronics guy," Tony says. "That white woman with the braid, used to head up the Pacific coast branch of Hydra. She was their chief scientist, had a medical background and almost as many degrees as me. I remember her from the S.H.I.E.L.D. file dump. And the fake priest is actually Kruger's son."

"Heinz Kruger? The man who shot Erskine?"

"Yeah. That's the guy. I only saw Kruger, aka Creepy Father René, and Baker, though. I told Coulson to keep an eye out for the others. We can give him your sketches when we reach him."

"How long before we meet with the _Lemurian Star_?" And yes, now he remembers why the name seemed so familiar to Canton. His brain must have been healing, all along.

"Soon," Tony says, but Steve can hear the lie in his voice.

"How long, Tony?"

"Fine," Tony says, sounding annoyed. "They're going to Martinique. Coulson will be back as soon as he can change ships. The _Star_ still belongs to S.H.I.E.L.D., and apparently, Coulson took it without asking."

"Can we at least go to the surface?" Steve suspects that he sounds pretty desperate.

"No. Sorry." Tony sighs. "Coulson said there are a bunch of unidentified jets and boats cruising around the sub's last location, and they're spreading out. I think they may have intercepted our communications to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"So they know we're alive."

"I didn't use names, but yeah, probably. I've shut down all non-essential systems and powered down the engines. We're just going to drift here and hope nobody notices us."

"Oh." Steve takes a few more deep breaths. "Keep talking, okay?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I actually only talk when I have something to say," Tony says. "Even if it's only a smartass remark."

"Tony."

"Sorry," and again, he sounds sincere. "But I'm pretty damned wiped right now, Rogers. I don't have your healing factor, and my shoulder and face fucking _hurt_."

"There's got to be a first aid kit."

"Well, there's not. Hydra's not big on patching people up, apparently." Tony sounds tired, now. Steve wants to open his eyes, to connect with him, but the ocean is pressing in so close on them, he'll see it if he opens his eyes, so dark--

"Your chest," Steve blurts. "The arc reactor." Tony doesn't answer. "Tony?"

"Yeah, I'm still here," he says.

"Tell me why there's an arc reactor in your chest again," Steve says.

"None of your business. Go to sleep or something, Rogers. I need to … I need to triangulate shit."

"Damn it," Steve says. "You can't triangulate when the submersible's systems are shut down, I'm not an idiot. Just …" Oh. Steve winces. "It was the fight in Siberia, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, fine, genius, it was the fight in Siberia," Tony snaps. "Happy?"

"No. Was it …" Steve swallows, mouth dry, " … was it when I hit you with the shield?"

"Maybe. Probably," Tony admits. "But it could have been anything. I was fighting both of you."

"What happened? Didn't you have all the shrapnel removed?"

"It's not shrapnel. My heart," Tony takes a deep breath and lets it out before he continues. "Look, it's probably old age or something. I'm not as young as I used to be. And I haven't exactly taken care of myself."

"Your heart was damaged?"

"It's always been damaged," Tony retorts. "Don't you read the gossip sites?"

"Tony."

"All right, fine. I developed an arrhythmia, okay? The arc reactor is a glorified pacemaker."

"I can't see you using it for an arrhythmia," Steve replies. "Not when you're working with Helen Cho. What really happened, Tony?"

"Drop it. Please." Tony sounds defeated, now. "I don't want to talk about it."

Whatever it is, it's serious. And it's Steve's fault. "I'm sorry," Steve says. "God, Tony, I'm so sorry."

"Look, I'm not blameless, either," Tony replies. "My heart got damaged in the fight, yeah, but it didn't help that I ignored it. I collapsed in the workshop, not in Siberia."

"Collapsed?"

"I had a heart attack," Tony admits. "A lot of my heart muscle died. I converted one of my arc reactors into, well, my heart. Helen Cho implanted it, grafted a lot of artificial tissue to it, so it's part of me, keeps my blood circulating. I'm fine, now, so don't worry about it. Just … don't tell anyone, okay? Only Helen knows."

"Tony. It's not like you can hide it," Steve points out. 

"Jesus, is that all you can say? Tony, Tony, Tony? It's not a big deal, just drop it."

Steve opens his eyes and does his best to ignore the ocean, because this is important. More important than fear, damn it. 

Tony is turned away from him, head hanging, shoulders slumped. 

"You did it because of the Avengers," Steve says. "Because most of us are on the run."

"Things are happening," Tony says. "Too many things. Like the Extremis variant they used on you. Like new supervillains. Like a goddamned sorcerer in the middle of New York City."

"And you can't leave people defenseless," Steve says.

"Don't try to get in my head," Tony says. 

"I'm your friend," Steve says.

"You don't run away on your friends," Tony says. He turns, glaring at Steve. 

Steve manages not to punch Tony, but it's a close thing. "I didn't run away, I went on the run. Two different things."

"Words, Rogers, just--oh, damn. See?" Tony gestures between them. "This is you and me. We're this. I promised myself not to be this with you this time, and here I am and here you are, just like always. And we can't be, because if we are, people get hurt."

Steve waits, but Tony doesn't say any more, he's just waiting for Steve. Steve wants to believe him, but it's Stark. There'll be a catch. He needs to be careful. "I'm listening."

"I really don't like you very much," Stark says, but he doesn't sound spiteful, which is something, Steve guesses. "But I trusted you until you started lying to me. I'm willing to trust you again, because despite being one of the stubbornness, most unpleasant assholes in the universe, there was a time you had my back when I needed it. I don't forget things like that." Tony looks away, wipes his hand over his face. "I don't forget things like that," he repeats.

He's right. As much as Steve wants to deny his accusations, as much as he wants to throw Tony's offer of friendship right back in his face, tell him what a self-important, elitist prick he is, Tony's right. Tony had only turned on Bucky and Steve because however helpless or unwilling he'd been, Bucky _had_ killed Howard, had murdered Tony's mother in cold blood. Steve hadn't known his dad, but if Bucky had killed him like that, he'd probably hate Bucky, too, even if he wasn't really responsible. Or God, if Bucky had killed his mother ... His stomach twists.

Steve shakes the thought off, but it makes him pause. Tony obviously had loved his mother deeply. And even though Tony had hated his dad, he was still willing to die to avenge him. Steve made a mistake, brushing those actions off as simply Tony's pride. 

It's love. Tony, when the chips are down, acts out of love, not hate. He always has, Steve realizes. It's why he's reaching out to Steve right now.

"Why do you hide it?" he asks. 

"I hide loads of shit, Rogers. Be more specific." Tony doesn't meet Steve's eyes. 

"You care," Steve elaborates. "But you hide it."

"In my world, if you wear your heart on your sleeve, someone's going to stab it," Tony says, his voice dull. 

Steve thinks about what he read in Tony's files about Obadiah Stane. "You're stronger than that. You've survived betrayal."

"Survival isn't the end game," Tony says. "You survive so you can do something. What you do with your survival is the end game."

Tony had survived, and stopped building weapons to kill people. Steve had survived to become a weapon to save people. "Still, survival is the first step," Steve points out. "How you survive is as important as surviving itself."

"You grew up on the streets and learned to survive there. I grew up with the bastards who create streets like yours. Don't knock my survival tactics because they're different from yours." Tony waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the ocean. "This isn't going anywhere. Neither of us is going to change."

Steve has never seen Tony defeated. He's seen him defensive, vicious, wounded, desperate, but in life or death situations Tony's always been able to pull something out of nothing, to find a solution where no one else could. He did it again today. He'll probably keep doing it, even if he has to sacrifice himself. He cares. Maybe too much.

Maybe that's why he and Tony have never gotten along. Take away the material differences, and they're identical. They're both leaders. They're both ready to take independent action. They both care. They both probably care too much. 

Like rejects like, according to science.

If they were magnets. 

They're not magnets.

"I'm sorry," Steve says.

Tony finally looks up, meets his gaze. He looks tired, resigned, so much older that Howard had ever looked. "About what?"

"For not looking harder," Steve says. "I should have looked at you harder."

"Can't see what isn't there, Rogers." Tony turns away again. "Am I going to have to listen to your pseudo-psychology the entire time we're trapped in here?"

Steve ignores the last. "Maybe it's more ..." he hesitates, trying to find the words. "More like there's too much to see rather than nothing to see. I think maybe it's easier to lose sight of someone in a crowded room than it is to see an empty room and know there's no one in it."

Tony snorts. "That makes zero sense."

How to explain it. "You're bigger than life." Steve closes his eyes again, but to think, not to hide. He's done with hiding. "I look at you, and I don't know where to look. There's too much going on. Good looks, power, money, tech, personality, emotions, speech, creativity, charisma, your mind--not many people have even one of those things. I guess I take it for granted that I know which one it is when I see it in someone, like looking in a room and knowing whether it has or doesn't have what I'm looking for. 

"But that doesn't work when I look at you. You've got all of those things going for you. So I look for the holes, instead. I just didn't consider the fact that what I thought were empty holes might really just be the pieces of you that are kept below the surface, so no one stabs them. I lose sight of you, because you're too crowded."

"You've been hanging around Wilson too long," Tony replies, but there's no mockery in his voice. "That kind of gibberish pays pretty well where I come from."

That stings. He's trying his best. He opens his eyes. "Tony."

"What?" Tony snaps, turning to glare at Steve. "You want to kiss and make up? You think we can change? You want to start over?"

Steve takes a deep breath. Taking things personally was what had got them here in the first place. "When I was Jean, when I told you that I didn't remember anything, you gave me a second chance. You weren't going to force me to be Steve Rogers," Steve replies, keeping his voice calm. "So yeah. Let's start over."

"The second chance was for Jean. I _liked_ Jean," Stark mutters.

Steve suppresses an urge to roll his eyes. "Then pretend I'm still Jean, if it works for you. You were the one who wanted to build a bridge. Don't crap out now that I'm putting up girders on my side of the gap, too."

He does his best to project confidence under Tony's assessing gaze. It's hard, though. Tony doesn't do anything by halves, and Steve feels the look dig into him, deeper than he's comfortable with.

But that's what friends do. Is he ready to offer that to Tony again? He wants to, but it's not going to be easy.

Tony looks away again. Then abruptly, he turns back to Steve and sticks out his right hand. "Tony Stark."

Steve's determined not to hesitate again, so he takes Tony's hand. "Jean Canton," he says, and where the hell had that come from? 

A corner of Stark's mouth twitches, then smooths. "I look forward to working with you."

"Me, too." It's weird. He really is looking forward to it, as Jean. Jean genuinely likes this Tony. Jean _trusts_ this Tony. It's really confusing, like he's two people, but not. Maybe it's because Jean is Steve without all of his baggage. Maybe Steve needs to let go of some of it. He releases Tony's hand. "Can it really be this easy?" he wonders.

Tony shrugs. "Probably not. We've both got issues."

"Yeah," Steve admits. 

They lapse into silence, and Steve suddenly realizes that he's forgotten about the ocean, hasn't let his phobia control him. He deliberately turns toward the front of the submersible.

It's still black, heavy, probably cold. He shivers a bit, but he doesn't need to look away.

_You survive to do something._

He survived the ocean. He survived losing everyone he loved. He lost Buck and found Bucky and now he's surviving Bucky's loss again. He survived Hydra's conditioning. He's survived the Extremis, and the neural blocker. 

He'll probably survive being trapped inside a bubble with Tony Stark, right back in the ocean.

He has to do something with those survivals. He can't let his fears drive him any longer. 

He's not going to run.

_Fighting with Tony has its uses._

"I'm fighting the Accords, Tony," Steve says. 

"That's a little out of the blue," Tony says, frowning.

"Do you want to help me?"

"I've been fighting them since they were drafted," Tony says. 

"But you gave in."

"I … yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Tony says. "Pepper. Stark Industries, because the company belongs to Pepper. Rhodey, because I wasn't going to leave him to face the Accords alone."

"Pepper found out, didn't she?"

"I didn't tell her," Tony says. 

"She wouldn't have left you, otherwise," Steve says. "She loves you, Tony. She's not going to accept you sacrificing your principals to keep her safe. She's probably furious with you."

Tony shakes his head. "It's over. She's gone. She's not coming back."

"Then there's nothing you have to protect anymore. Fight the Accords with me," Steve urges. "For Lancolme. For Yinsen."

Tony looks up sharply. "I'll think about it," he finally says. "Will that get you off my back?"

"For now," Steve says. "But I'll need a place to stay."

"You can stay at the Tower. It's a fortress. It's not like they can come in and arrest you. There's plenty of room, now that everyone's on the run and Rhodey's recovering."

Steve remembers watching Rhodes fall from the sky. One more black mark against his record. He owes the man. "How is he?"

"Recovering. He's going to head the school project. We've been talking about it for a while. He's pretty excited."

"The school project? You mean, the one you talked to us about? The one on Petit Mayreau?"

"Yeah. I told you I meant what I said about it," Tony says.

"Why?"

Tony looks thoughtful. "This past year," he says, "I met a couple of kids. Smart kids, like maybe as smart as I was at their ages. Neither has any money, so I figured I'd just give them both scholarships. But then I started thinking, 'hey, if there are two smart kids you met just in passing, Stark, how many more are out there?'"

"Spiderman," Steve realizes. "He's just a kid."

"Yeah. Pretty smart, though. And a kid named Harley, stuck in the boonies." Tony smiles, eyes unfocused and remembering. "Then I gave out scholarships to a bunch of MIT students, and I realized that they were the wrong ones to get the money. Well, not wrong, they're great, but they're already in the system. I met a couple of kids that aren't in the system, may not have the opportunity because they just don't have the money even though they have more brains in their little fingers than those MIT kids had in their heads, and realized it was a fucking loss to the rest of us if all the other Spideys and Harleys couldn't get the same kind of education."

"I'd love to help on a project like that," Steve says. 

Tony examines him. "I'm going to leave a Quinjet with Rhodey on the island," he says slowly. "There's no reason that a guy like Jean Canton couldn't use it, too."

"So call me Jean." He grins. 

Tony snorts and shakes his head. "We need to check you for brain damage when we get back, Rogers."

"Steve," Steve corrects. "Okay. But I'm pretty sure my brain's fine."

"What brought this on?" Tony asks. "I mean, it's not like anything's changed. Is it, 'hey, I know we've spent the last five years head-butting and avoiding first names like they're the plague, but now that we're in a tiny submarine and lost in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, call me Steve?'"

"I didn't say any of that," Steve says mildly. "I just said 'call me Steve.' The rest isn't important."

"Wait. Hold the presses," Tony says. "Steve Rogers just put aside a grudge."

"I didn't say that either," Steve points out. "But yeah, now that you've said it, you're right. I'm not holding a grudge against you anymore."

"I don't get it," Tony says. "Do not get to the maximum not-gettingness possible."

Steve contemplates. "I guess, maybe, I'm saying let's be friends."

Tony stares. "You don't have friends, you have acolytes. Well, maybe Barnes," he adds.

"That's not a very nice thing to say about Sam and Nat," Steve says. But it's probably not that far off, either, Steve thinks. He expects Sam and Nat to follow him, not the other way around. Tony's different. He follows because he chooses to, but he doesn't hesitate to challenge Steve the second he disagrees with him.

Like Bucky. 

Huh.

"Wilson and Romanov can defend themselves if they feel insulted by the truth," Tony says, blunt as always. "They don't need you to do it for them."

"You're right again," Steve says. "Wow. On a roll there, Tony."

Tony rolls his eyes, then looks thoughtful. "Friends, huh? What's the catch?"

"No catch. I'm just--" How to put it? "I think, maybe, I'm just realizing that I've thrown away good things with the things that drive me crazy about the world these days. That it's stupid to hate everything for what it isn't instead of liking things for what they are."

Tony blinks. "That makes … no sense. Christ, Steve. Are you really that idiotic?"

"Apparently so," Steve says. 

"Huh," Tony says. "I've gotta say, I didn't see this coming."

"Well, maybe you're just throwing out the things that drive you crazy about the world these days and looking for something that doesn't exist yet," Steve says.

Tony stares. "Let me get this straight," he finally says. "We're both hating things the way they are and looking for things that are either gone or don't exist yet?"

Steve bobs his head side-to-side. "Yeah, I guess. Maybe. Maybe if both of us stop looking backwards or forwards for a minute, though, we might find something we like."

"Meet in the middle?" Tony asks.

"In the present, anyway," Steve says. "Don't know if that's strictly in the middle. You look pretty far ahead, Tony."

"And you look about a hundred years back," Tony retorts. "Okay. Split the difference and call it the present. I'm still gonna call you 'Rogers,' though. I only call Pepper by her first name."

"I thought her first name was Virginia," Steve says.

"It is," Tony says. "But her real name will always be Pepper."

He grins at Steve, who can't help but grin back. He thinks, maybe, that he and Tony might be on the way to being friends. Finally. 

"So," Steve says, "now that I'm apparently able to confront my phobia and we've got an idea about how to restructure the world's education system and stop worldwide prosecution of people with powers, what should we do until Coulson gets here?"

Tony shrugs. "We can play 'Is This Prime?'"

Steve just looks at him.

Tony huffs. "Fine. How about 'I Spy?'"

The only thing Steve can spy is the ocean, dark and deadly. Trust Tony to be the one who forces him see past that.

"You're on," he says.


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue

Tony, being Tony, almost doesn't arrive in time for the ceremony.

Steve shields his eyes as Tony's helicopter lands, sand and palm fronds kicked up by the speed of the rotors. 

"Damn it," Rhodey mutters beside him. "He's going to break the tape before we can cut it, the idiot."

Tony steps out of the helicopter and buttons his suit jacket, chin up and smiling slightly for the reporters and cameras. He ignores the questions shouted at him and walks over to Steve and Rhodey.

"Greetings, Canton," he says, shaking Steve's hand. He turns to Rhodey. "Ready to build a school?"

Rhodey rolls his eyes. "Not single-handedly."

Tony claps him on the shoulder. "Aw, sugar plum, don't sell yourself short. You can do anything."

"Jerk," Rhodey mutters, but he pulls Tony into a hug.

Steve can't help but grin.

"Right," Tony says after giving Rhodey a few hard back slaps and pulling away. He rubs his hands together. "What do you say we get this show on the road?"

"You were the one who held us up," Steve points out.

"And now that I'm here, no need to hold up any longer," Tony replies blithely. "Scissors? Scissors? Anyone have some bigass scissors I can use?"

Steve hands Tony the ceremonial scissors. "Though the helicopter blades might work, too, if these aren't big enough," he says.

"Cheek. You're giving me cheek, Canton." Tony accepts the scissors and saunters over to the ribbon, stretched out over the cleared ground like a finish line. Or a starting line, Steve supposes. He looks at the clearing, and remembers the huge white house with the pitched red roofs that used to stand here.

The moment is bittersweet.

"Today we're here to cut the ribbon that symbolizes the start of a project that's going to rock the educational and scientific worlds on their feet," Tony says loudly, hands in the air to hold everyone's attention. "I call it ... KISS. Say hello to the future Lancolme Dernier Academy, the place where capitalism and science will finally be united in the matrimonial bliss!"

"To Lancolme Dernier Academy," Steve murmurs.

And Tony cuts the ribbon.

_fin_

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